University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


*     . 


.   / 


St 


A  NOVEL. 


«  Had  heaven  but  tongues  to  speak,  as  well 

"  As  starry  eyes  to  see; 
'«  O,  think,  what  tales  they'd  have  to  tell, 

"  Of  wandering  youths  like  me." 

TOM.    MOOTIE. 


tfje  atttjot  of  aoflan— antr 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES. 


VOIi.  I. 


PUBLISHED 

FOR  WHOM  IT  MAY  CONCERN 

1823. 


Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania)  to  ivit-. 

BE  IT  REMEMBERED,  That  on  the  twenty-eighth  day  of  July,  in 
the  forty-seventh  year  of  the  Independence  of  the  United 
States  of  America,  A.  D.  1823,  Charles  I.  Jack,  of  the 
said  district,  hath  deposited  in  this  office  the  title  of  a 
book,  the  right  whereof  he  claims  as  proprietor,  in  the 
words  following1,  to  wit. 

"  Randolph,  a  Novel. 

«»  Had  heaven  but  tongues  to  speak,  as  well 

«<  As  starry  eyes  to  see; 
»  O,  think,  what  tales  they'd  have- to  tell, 

"  Of  wandering  youths  like  me  "  TOM  MOOH&. 

By  the  author  of  Logan— and  Seventy-six.  In  two  volumes." 
In  conformity  to  the  act  of  Congres  of  the  United  States,  entitled, 
"An  act  for  the  encouragement  of  learning,  by  securing  the  Copies 
of  maps,  charts,  and  books,  to  the  author  and  proprietor*  <>*'  such  co- 
pies, during  the  times  therein  mentioned."  And  also  to  the  act,  enti- 
tled, "An  act  supplementary  to  an  act,  entitled,  <An  act  for  the  en- 
couragement  of  learning,  by  securing  the  copies  of  maps,  charts,  and 
hooks,  to  the  authors  and  proprietors  of  such  copies  during  the 
times  therein  mentioned/  graving,  and  etching  historical  and  other 
prints." 

D.  CALDWELL,  Clerk  of  the  Eastern, 
District  of  Pennsylvania. 


DEDICATION. 


DEJ1R 


The  wide  water  is  between  us,  dear;  but,  if 
this  volume  should  ever  fall  in  your  way,  and  stranger 
things  have  happened,  already,  during  our  mysterious 
acquaintance,  you  will  know  the  author,  the  moment  that 
you  touch  the  paper,  by  the  flutter  at  your  heart.  Would 
that  I  might  be  near  enough  to  you,  for  a  moment  of  ad- 
monition! I  would  bid  you  beware  of  opening  any  new 
work  in  the  presence  of  another;  otherwise,  when  you 
least  expect  it,  your  agitation  might  betray  a  secret,  that 
is  unknown  to  every  other  living  creature. 

Have  you  forgotten  what  I  told  you?  Have  you  for- 
gotten my  promise?  How  have  I  kept  it?  "Nothing  is 
impossible  to  them  that  love,  and  lave  innocently."  Their 
spirits  will  hold  communion  together — sleeping  or  wak- 
ing;—and  who  shall  participate  therein?  Nobody — no 
living  creature — not  even  the  angels  in  heaven; — none 
but  HIM,  that  pitieth  his  children. 

Farewell,  dear 


THERE  are  some  people,  and  two  in  particular,  who,.  I 
have  good  reason  to  believe,  arc  in  America  at  this  mo- 
ment, whose  feelings  I  would  spare,  although  they  may 
have  little  hope  or  expectation  of  such  forbearance; — but 
sorrow  and  humiliation  are  sacred  things — particularly 
such  sorrow  and  humiliation  as  theirs:  like  spots  of  green 
earth,  whereon  the  Deity  hath  spent  his  wrath — they  can- 
not be  approached,  by  the  stoutest  heart,  or  sternest  fore- 
head, without  some  emotion  of  terrour  and  solemnity.  To 
them,  this  advertisement  is  addressed,  as  a  warning;  and 
I  pray  the  publisher  to  indulge  me  so  far,  as  to  place  it 
where  it  will  immediately  attract  the  eye.  I  would  cause 
no  spasm  of  the  heart — no  convulsion  of  the  lips — even  to 
my  enemy.  The  name  of  RANDOLPH  may  alarm  them.  If 
it  should,  they  had  better  throw  down  the  book:  but,  if  it 
should  not,  let  them  look  at  the  initials  at  the  bottom  of 
this.  "They  are  used  for  the  last  time."  If  they  have 
still  the  courage  to  proceed,  the  consequences  be  upon 
their  own  head.  If  they  have  the  wisdom  to  be  silent, 
all  may  be  well,  notwithstanding;  for  they  will  soon  find 
that  I  have  no  feeling  of  hostility  or  resentment  toward 
them.  I  am  merely  doing  my  duty.  All  the  letters  that 
are  genuine,  /  have  ccme  honestly  by;  and  the  rest  are 
compiled  from  data,  in  my  own  possession,  whose  au- 
thenticity, they9  I  am  sure,  will  be  the  last  to  dispute. — - 
I  am  conscious  of  no  violation  of  "trust  or  delicacy;99  and 
had  they  consulted  me,  in  any  jnanner,  except  that  t>f 
direct  personal  commuriication/lbefore  they  threatened 
me:  or,  before  they  applied  for  the  injunction,  I  could  have 
satislied  them,  that  the  first  mode  of  proceeding  was  child- 
ish, and  the  last  unwise,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  There 
would  have  been  more  discretion  in  silence;  and  if  they 
do  not  betray  it,  there  is  no  other  human  being,  not  even 
B 


VI 

the  Chancellor  him  sell',  able  to  trace  the  history  of  their 
unhappy  friend,  in  these  volumes;  or  even  to  divine  the 
cause  of  their  application  to  him. 

The  story  is  too  remarkable,  and  the  events  too  recent, 
to  be  distinctly  told;  and  the  little  that  is  revealed,  in  its 
truth  and  nakedness,  will  be  intelligible  to  only  two  hu- 
man creatures;  and  is  barely  enough  for  the  justification  of 
an  unfortunate  and  injured  man,  with  them  that  are  ac- 
cessible to  no  other  means  of  justification.  Chance  may, 
one  day  or  other,  when  he  is  in  his  grave,  bring  the 
right  persons  acquainted  with  all  that  is  material.  They 
will  weep  then;  and  he  will  know  it 

In  the  mean  time,  the  publick  may  be  amused,  and 
agitated,  perhaps,  for  a  little  season,  without  any  suspi- 
cion of  the  truth. 

"W.  V.  R. 

"Bridgewater." 

p.  S. — "He  forgave  them — and  blessed  them — with 
his  last  breath."  As  for  RANDOLPH,  he  has  nothing  to 
complain  of.  I  have  drawn  him  better  than  he  is.  If  he 
be  disposed  to  quarrel — he  knows  where  I  am  to  be 
found. 


^\  LETTER  I. 

Baltimore,  &4th  «7Vav.  18 — . 

-N  O,  dear;  you  are  mistaken  in  Molton.  He  is  not  the 
abject  creature  that  you  believe.  I  have  no  proof  to  of- 
fer you,  it  Is  true; — nothing  but  my  bare  word;  and  that 
too,  founded  upon  an  interview  often  minutes.  But,  nev- 
ertheless, I  do  entreat  you  to  believe  me;  or,  if  that  be  too 
much,  Sarah,  let  me  beg  that  you  suspend  your  opinion 
awhile,  and  not  express  it,  to  any  human  creature,  until 
you  are  assured  that  you  are  not  wronging  a  noble  na- 
ture. I  wish  that  you  could  have  seen  him,  cousin,  when  I 
handed  your  note  to  him.  You  would  have  given  up  all 
your  prejudices,  I  am  sure,  on  the  spot;  nay — you  would 
have  wept.  As  he  read  it,  I  saw  a  slight  convulsion  pass 
over  his  broad  forehead; — it  contracted  a  little  too,  and 
then,  there  was  a  quiet  hectick;  and  his  patient  light  blue 
eyes  flashed  fire; — and,  if  I  must  tell  the  truth,  there  was 
an  angry  fierceness  in  his  look,  for  a  single  moment,  that, 
in  spite  of  myself,  made  me  tremble;  but,  when  this  was 
followed,  as  it  was,  almost  immediately,  by  a  mortal 
paleness,  and  a  slow,  calm  movement  of  the  arm  and 
hand,  as  he  reached  out  the  billet  to  me,  it  was  really 
appalling.  It  almost  took  my  strength  away.  Such  a 
delicate  creature, — so  effeminate,  and  sickly! — it  is  un- 
accountable to  me,  how  his  presence  should  so  affect  me. 
I  took  the  billet — I  read  it. — Shall  I  confess  the  truth, 
Sarah?  I  was  shocked.  All  that  you  had  told  me,  might 
be  true; — he  might  be  that  consummate  villain;  as  plausi- 
ble, and  as  cowardly,  as  you  had  persuaded  me  to  believe 
him;— but  never  did  I  so  falter  and  wane  before  any  mor- 


8  BANDOLPH. 

tal  man,  as  before  that  feeble  and  emaciated  being; 
with  whom  I  had  sought  a  quarrel;  against  whom,  for- 
getting my  own  manhood,  I  had  volunteered  so  many 
maledictions.  Sarah — hear  me! — By  heaven,  we  have 
wronged  him!  I  care  not  what  proof  you  have  to  offer 
me; — nay,  though  it  be  that  of  your  own  senses — or  mine 
— I  would  sooner  doubt  them  both,  than  believe  that  Ed- 
ward Molton  is  a  scoundrel.  No — the  great  God  of 
heaven  would  not  permit  a  scoundrel,  so  to  profane  and 
counterfeit  the  heroick  bearing  of  innocence.  Are  you 
not  amazed? — I  am.  I  read  over  what  I  have  written. 
I  think  over  all  that  has  passed  since  we  parted;  and  I 
look  in  upon  myself,  with  a  strange  feeling  of  doubt  and 
perplexity.  How  is  my  opinion  changed! — how  have  I 
confirmed  all  your  predictions,  when  you  bade  me  be- 
ware of  listening  to  him,  or  looking  upon  him.  You 
foretold  this; — yet  I  laughed  at  you. — You  said  that,  if  I 
permitted  myself  to  hearken  to  him,  I  was  lost.  I  have 
hearkened  to  him. — He  has  used  no  argument; — no  ex- 
postulation; no  entreaty;  no  defence;  yet,  I  declare  to  you, 
my  dear  Sarah,  that  I  am  ready,  at  this  moment,  as  you 
said  I  should  be,  to  bleed  and  die  for  Edward  Molton — 
for  whom? — Righteous  heaven!  for  the  destroyer  of  Ju- 
liet— the  murderer  of  William.— Yes,  yes! — give  me  more 
proof — more! — I  am  not  satisfied; — or,  I  shall  turn  apos- 
tate to  my  cousin's  memory ;  yea,  battle  for  the  man  that 
slew  him;  and  bleed  for  him,  that  spoiled  and  blasted  the 
sweetest  creature,  by  the  God  who  made  me — that  ever 
inhabited  this  earth. 

0!  Sarah,  what  is  this  surpassing,  and  mysterious 
power?  Is  not  Edward  Molton  fashioned  like  ourselves? 
— feebler,  it  may  be,  in  physical,  and  in  intellectual  re- 
source? and  yet,  if  they,  that  know7  him,  are  to  be  believ- 
ed, so  damnable  a  villain,  that  his  very  breath  is  poison, 
insinuating  itself,  like  a  subtile  vapour  into  the  sound 
and  pure  of  heart;  and  there  operating,  like  death,  till 
all  is  blackness  and  ashes.  But  can  this  be?  Would  our 
Maker  permit  it?  Arc  we  to  have  no  defence;  not  even 
from  wisdom,  doubt,  or  experience,  against  the  wily  and 
insidious?  I  am  not  old,  it  is  true;  but  I  have  seen  much 
of  the  world;  and  I  never  yet  saw  a  confirmed  villain,  in 
whose  lineaments,  the  Deity  himself,  had  not  written  his 


RANDOLPH.  9 

history  and  character.  And  yet,  here  is  a  face,  youth- 
ful, frank,  open  and  dignified,  where  there  is  not  a  line, 
nor  a  shadow,  but  what  looks  like  the  boundary  or  com- 
munication between  kingdoms,  upon  a  map, — rather  than 
the  secret  and  dark  tracking  of  banditti;  and  yet,  you 
would  have  me  believe  that  he  is  a  magician  in  power, 
and  a  devil  in  heart;  confirmed  and  established,  in  the 
most  appalling  and  deliberate  criminality.  I  cannot  be- 
lieve this,  Sarah.  I  choose  rather  to  believe  that  we  are 
deceived,  in  some  likelier  way.  But,  if  I  should  write 
forever,  I  could  not  communicate  a  thousandth  part  of 
what  I  feel  toward  that  man, — that  injured  man.  I  say 
this,  boldly; — I  am  ready  to  meet  your  ridicule,  perhaps 
your  scorn; — but,  I  will  not  stir  another  step  in  the  af- 
fair— no,  not  even  to  call  him  out,  which  I  would  rather 
do,  a  hundred  times,  than  suffer  the  compunction  that  I 
now  feel,  for  having  thought  of  such  a  thing.  Sarah; — 
can  you  believe  me! — I  was  afraid,  yes,  actually  afraid 
to  tell  him  my  errand; — and,  to  this  moment,  he  does  not 
know  that  I  had  aught  else  with  him,  than  to  deliver  your 
note.  Farewell! — I  am  prepared  for  all  that  you  can 
say.  Yet  I  shall  meet  you,  without  trembling.  I  am 
prepared  even  to  be  classed  with  the  fools  and  coxcombs, 
that  are  also  subject  to  him; — nay,  prepared  to  have  my 
motives,  and  possibly  my  personal  courage  impeached. 
But  no — I  am  wrong; — forgive  me,  Sarah.  You  will  not 
be  so  unkind; — you  will  only  say  what  you  believe — that 
I  am  infatuated. 

Farewell, 

JOHN  OMAR, 

Miss  Sarah  Ramsay,  New-York. 


LETTER  II. 

REPLY. 

I 

New-York,  Q9th  November, 

Is  it  possible! — /  pity  you.     Your  letter,  dear  John, 
arrived  almost  as  soon  as  we.    I  received  it,  in  the 
B2 


13  RANDOLPH. 

parlour,  and,  though  I  trembled,  I  am  sure,  from  head 
to  foot,  yet  I  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  open  and  read 
it,  hy  the  side  of  my  father  and  mother.  This  was  the  on- 
ly course  left  to  me;  for  your  imprudence,  in  directing  it 
as  you  did,  made  them  watch  every  movement  of  my 
countenance;  and  what  could  I  have  done,  if  my  father, 
my  kind,  dear  father,  had  asked  me  for  it?  0,  let  me  en- 
treat you  cousin,  to  be  less  precipitate.  It  will  be  fatal 
to  you,  one  day  or  other,  I  am  sure.  You  are  so  direct, 
sudden,  and  rash,  that  I  am  always  quaking  for  you. — 

I  am   interrupted ah! 

-—  I  am  called I  have  re- 
turned and  left  them  all  talking  about  you;  but,  I  have  only 
a  moment  to  spare,  lest  my  absence  may  be  taken  notice  of. 
There  are  only  two  things,  or  perhaps  three,  that  I  have 
time  to  say  now;  and  they  are  these.  You  are  infatuated. 
Edward  is  a  villain:  but  I  want  you  to  tell  me,  exactly, 
how  he  looked  and  acted,  (for  he  is  a  masterly  actor,  and 
can  deceive  any  human  being,  youthful  and  artless  as  he 
appears,  with  the  counterfeit  of  any  passion,  feeling, 
character  or  emotion.)  Let  me  hear  this,  by  the  return 
mail;  and  I  will  then  inform  you  of  some  other  circumstan- 
ces that  have  come  to  my  knowledge,  since  I  left  Balti- 
more. But  there  is  one  favour,  that  I  have  to  request  of 
you; — be  a  little  more  temperate  in  your  style.  You 
know  my  opinion  of  such  things.  I  hate  fine  writing  in 
a  letter,  just  as  I  hate  fine  talking  in  conversation. 

Adieu, 

S. 

P.  S.  I  forgot  to  say,  that,  notwithstanding  my  predic- 
tion, I  am  really  amazed,  astonished  and  confounded  at 
your  extravagance.  Nay, — although  I  foretold  it,  I  did 
not  believe  it  myself,  cousin — that  you,  you  should  have 

been  such  a upon  my  word,  if  out  of  the  abundance 

Of  the  heart,  the  pen  had  written, — you  would  have  found 
rather  an  ungracious  word,  where  that  blank  is.  But 
tell  me  how  he  managed  you.  Defend  yourself,  I  en- 
treat you;  John — hearken  to  me — defend  yourself,  or  I 
shall  despise  you.  Nayj — at  this  moment — Sarah,  the 


RANDOLPH.  It 

"proud,  unfeeling  Sarah,"  is  weeping  for  you — weeping 
with  shame  and  vexation.  These  blisters  on  the  paper, 
— these  blots  and  blurs — John!  I  do  not  pften  weep; — 
but,  if  you  do  not  give  me  better  reasons,  than  any  that 
I  can  imagine,  in  your  unexampled  apostacy,  I  shall  be 
tempted  to  swear,  never  again  to  shed  a  tear,  whatever 
may  become  of  you; — nay,  to  requite  you  with  scorn  and 
derision,  for  the  distress  that  I  feel  at  this  moment.  Af- 
ter all  that  I  had  said  to  you,  too!  Why,  pride  would 
have  withheld  you,  if  you  were  like  any  other  human  be- 
ing. But,  good  bye! — let  me  hear,  immediately;  I  shall 
not  sleep,  till  you  are  restored  to  my  respect. 

S. 


EDWARD    MOLTOJT   TO    MART    HOWARD. 

Washington, . 


I  shall  obey  you,  imperious  girl.  You  know  your  pow- 
er, and  you  abuse  it.  It  is  as  I  foretold  you,  when  I  de- 
tected the  first  yearning  of  your  heart.  But  beware!— 
no  woman  shall  hold  me  in  thraldom  longer  than  I  can 
revere  her.  "Love!" — O  Mary!  you  know  not  what  love 
is.  Do  I? — look  at  me; — look  in  that  glass — there  is  the 
face  of  the  haughty  Edward.  That  death-like  aspect — 
these  sunken  temples — that  is  thy  work.  I  do  not  krtow 
myself.  The  fire  of  my  eyes,  it  may  be,  is  not  yet  utter- 
ly quenched;  but  God  knows  that  it  soon  will  be.  And, 
even  now,  there  is  something  in  their  lustre,  unlike  the 
colour  or  brightness  of  health;  and  were  I  to  see  it  in  the 
eyes  of  another,  in  thine,  Mary,  I  should  weep; — but, 
it  is,  there  is  a  melancholy  gladness  about  my  heart,  that 
comforts  it,  like  the  touch  of  a  beloved  hand,  gently  put 
upon  a  wounded  part. 

My  character  is  gone.  What  of  that?  It  was  sacri- 
ficed to  thee.  My  health  is  blasted — death  is  within  me 
— my  vitals  are  decaying; — I  can  feel  them  weakening 
and  detaching  themselves,  while  I  write,  like  the  fila- 
ments of  life  from  a  dead  heart;-— but  what  of  that? — 
Then  art  the  happier  for  it 


12  RANDOLPH. 

Even  now,  I  was  on  the  point  of  slaying  another  mail 
to  thee!  O  woman!  woman!  what  art  thou  made  of?  So 
beautiful,  yet  so  deadly!  I  hear  the  echo  of  his  depart- 
ing step,  now.  The  noise  of  the  door,  that  he  hath  shut 
after  him,  is  sounding  in  my  ears  now,  like  something 
miraculous;  as  if  a  dead  man  had  arisen,  from  hefore  my 
feet,  and  walked  leisurely  a\vay  from  me.  What  saved 
him,  Mary?  I  know  not,  unless  it  be  his  resemblance 
to — to — by  heaven,  I  will  write  it,  though  it  kill  thee! — 
to  Juliet! there! 

He  knows  not  that  I  suspected  his  errand;  no! — for,  if 
he  had,  he  should  never  have  left  my  presence,  alive! — 
What!  bearded,  baited,  cursed  and  threatened,  by  child- 
ren, even  in  the  solitude  of  my  own  chamber!  No. — 
George,  George! — it  was  well  for  thy  brother,  and  for 
thine  too,  William,  poor  William,  that  I  was  not  obliged 
to  trample  on  another  of  your  headlong,  impetuous  blood. 

But  let  me  proceed  more  gently.  Here  is  the  precious 
note  that  he  brought.  O,  would  that  the  writer  were  a 
man!  Read  it — read  it,  Mary,  and  tell  me  that  you  won- 
der at  me.  You  ought — you  will — I  have  surpassed  my- 
self. The  boy  came  to  murder  me,  and  he  went  away 
my  vassal.  What  a  retinue  I  shall  have! — the  gallant, 
the  athletick,  the  noble  in  heart,  the  wise,  all  subject  to 
me — me!  a  weak  and  miserable  creature,  on  whom  the 
weakest  might  set  his  foot — if  he  dared.  Read  it! — and 
wonder,  as  I  do,  that  my  heart  was  not  shivered  into 
ten  thousand  pieces,  when  I  read  it. 

(XOTE    ENCLOSED.) 

Baltimore, ,  Monday  morning. 

SIR— 

If  you  dare  to  set  your  foot  within  my  father's  house, 
you  shall  be  treated  as  you  deserve,  by  tht  servants.  I 
will  not  see  you.  My  opinions  are  well  founded,  and 
not  to  be  shaken.  I  shall  be  on  my  return  to  New-York, 
when  you  receive  this:  and  there  is  then,  only  one  thing 
that  you  can  do,  to  alter  or  change  my  hatred  and  con- 
tempt for  you; — and  that  is,  to  repent  and  die.  You  have 
slandered  a  woman,  whose  only  fault  was  her  tender- 


RANDOLPH.  13 

ness  for  you.  You  have  not  the  courage,  and  the  great- 
ness to  acknowledge  it :  and,  I  believe,  are  too  abject, 
even  to  take  the  field  in  defence  of  your  own  miserable" 
vilhiny.  Farewell,  sir.  I  do  not  pray  that  you  may  be 
hanged,  or  drawn  and  quartered;  no — but  I  do  pray  that 
you  may  live,  till  your  heart  ache  at  the  recollection  of 
your  crime,  as  mine  does  at  this  moment,  while  I  say  that 
I  pray  God,  in  his  mercy,  to  forgive  me  for  having  pro- 
nounced or  written  your  name.  Once  more,  farewell. — 
Do  not  flatter  yourself  that  I  have  avoided  you  from  fear. 
No. — I  do  not  fear  you;  but  I  loathe  and  abhor  you,  as 
something  unnatural  and  base.  You  are  welcome  to 
show  this  letter,  if  you  dare; — the  name  I  shall  write, 
at  full  length,  giving  you  all  the  advantage  of  your 
meanness;  and  you  may  show  it,  as  I  have  no  doubt  that 
you  will,  to  prove  that  you  are  on  goo*d  terms  with  one 
of  many,  that  detest  and  execrate  you.  I  have  told  the 
bearer  to  avoid  you — that  you  were  to  be  avoided  and 
shunned. 

SARAH   RAMSAY. 

Now,  what  think  you,  Mary?  Is  not  that  about  enough 
for  mortal  patience?  What  would  you  do?  Advise  m%— 
counsel  me.  Shall  I  follow  her  to  New- York,  to  France, 
to  the  ends  of  the  earth — till  I  accomplish  my  purpose? 
What  say  you? — speak  but  the  wrord,  and  so  sure  as  my 
name  is  Edward  Molton — so  sure  as  I  am  beloved  of 
thee,  thou  terrible  woman,  so  sure  will  I  bring  that 
haughty  girl  to  my  feet — as  I  have  thee.  Nay,  start  not, 
Mary.  Is  it  not  true?  Thou  thinkest  that  I  am  in  thy 
power.  True — I  am; — to  a  certain  degree,  I  am; — but 
thou  art  abundantly  more  in  mine.  What!  do  I  boast? 
I  do,  and  defy  thee — even  thee9  thou  mysterious  and  pas- 
sionate creature,  with  all  thy  loveliness  and  wrath,  to 
rebel.  And  why?  Because  thou  fearest  to  die;  and  I  do 
not.  Thou  wouldst  not  survive  my  abandonment  of  thee;— « 
thou  wouldst  go  to  thy  grave,  guilty,  broken  hearted, 
and  shivering.  But  I — I  should  die  like  a  hero — a  mar- 
tyr, in  my  own  blaze,  laughing  at  the  devils  that  beck- 
oned to  me,  and  covering  up  my  poor  shattered  heart,  in 
its  mortal  spasms,  from  all,  but  most  of  all,  from  thee : 
for  thou,  woman,  were  I  dying  for  thee,  shouldst  never 


14  RANDOLPH. 

know  it; — and  I  would  haunt  thee,  yea,  I  would,  forever 
arid  ever,  for  thy  desertion  of  me — even  if  thou  wert  un- 
faithful to  my  memory.  WhatL  have  I  not  purchased 
thee? — purchased  thee,  in  blood?  And  shall  I  permit  an- 
other to  approach  thee? — never!  And  better  'twere  for 
him,  to  penetrate  the  cavern  where  sleeps  the  young  pan- 
ther, under  the  watch  of  its  famished  mother,  than  go 
near  where  thou  art  sleeping!  Mary! — I  would  make  the 
world  a  solitude,  had  I  the  power,  were  one  of  its  inha- 
bitants but  to  think  of  thee,  irreverently. 

I  intended  to  tell  thee  how  I  received  the  boy,  that 
came  to  fight  me;  but  I  must  defer  it,  till  I  meet  thee. 
I  overcame  him— I  put  the  billet  into  his  hand; — and,  after 
a  few  words,  I  was  calm,  very  calm — I  bade  him  go  in 
peace.  He  thought  that  I  knew  not  his  errand; — and 
well  for  him  was  it,  that  he  did  think  so.  Death!  that  I 
must  conceal  and  darken  the  working  of  my  soul  before 
such  children!  I  cannot  tell  thee,  Mary,  how  I  did  it; 
Hut,  I  did  it.  In  one  word, — I  conquered  him. 


Thine f  for  ever, 

Farewell!— 

EDWARD. 


JOHN   TO    SARAH. 

Annapolis,  (Md.)  Dec.—. 

I  shall  try  to  be  "temperate"  in  my  reply.  Whether  I 
shall  succeed  or  not,  will  depend  upon  the  route  that  my 
thoughts  take.  At  present,  I  feel  calm,  and  affectionate- 
ly disposed;  but  you  have  wounded  me,  somewhat  cruelly 
Sarah,  and  somewhat  carelessly; — and  my  nature  may 
take  fire; — yet — no,  my  dear  Sarah — I  will  not  believe 
it;  it  was  not  unkindly  meant,  and  I  cannot  retaliate 
upon  you. 

Your  sentiments,  respecting  an  epistolary  style,  are 
precisely  my  own.  Nothing  is  so  tiresome  to  me,  as  the 
conversation  of  one  that  talks  "like  a  book;"  and  what 


RANDOLPH.  15 

is  good  letter  writing,  but  written  conversation? — free, 
natural,  and  unstudied,  touching  us  rather,  with  its  readi- 
ness, and  simplicity,  like  the  playfulness  of  a  well  bred 
woman,  or  the  pleasantry  of  one,  that ah!  I  am  trans- 
gressing again,  so — no  more  of'that. 

OfMolton.  When  he  handed  me  your  letter,  I  read 
it;  and,  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say,  that  I  read  it,  as  for  the 
first  time.  How  different  did  it  appear  to  me,  while  you 
read  it,  with  your  lips  quivering,  and  your  eyes  darting 
fire  about  them,  when  I  thought  that  he  deserved  your 
keenest,  deadliest  invective.  But  when  I  read  it  in  his 
presence;  that  calm,  beautiful  self-possession,  that  gentle 
and  deep  serenity  of  his,  -which  seemed  disquieted  but  for 
a  single  moment,  as  he  read,  I  am  sure,  with  a  convul- 
sion at  his  heart;  that  unmanned  me;  I  could  have  wept 
almost,  for  having  so  dishonoured  hiin.  Abuse  me,  Sa- 
rah; I  can  endure  it; — but  the  truth  I  must  tell.  When 
1  had  done,  I  reached  the  letter  back  to  him,  without 
daring  to  lift  my  eyes  to  his  face.  I  was  overpowered 
with  shame  and  sorrow,  for  the  part  tl\at  I  had  acted;  and 
yet  I  was  unspeakably  happy  that  I  had  not,  after  my  na- 
ture, abruptly  insulted  him,  at  once;  and  that  continues 
to  be  a  great  consolation  to  me. 

But  what  converted  me,  you  ask.  Let  me  tell  you. — 
The  repose  and  steadiness  of  his  look; — the  quiet,  habit- 
ual dignity  of  his  motion; — the  musick  of  his  voice,  so 
manly  and  composed,  so  unlike  what  I  looked  for,  from 
one  so  emaciated  and  girlish.  Little  and  effeminate  men 
are  so  apt  to  be  petulant  and  waspish,  you  know. 

He  was  leaning  upon  his  hand.  A  silence,  I  should  think, 
of  four  or  five  minutes,  followed;  after  which,  he  slowly 
raised  his  head.  His  pale  blue  eyes  had  become  intense- 
ly dark;  and  his  light,  silky  hair,  was  disordered, 
strangely,  by  his  hands,  just  as  if  he  had  been  tearing  it — 
while  I  was  looking  down  upon  the  floor. 

"It  is  hard  to  bear,*'  said  he,  looking  me  full  in  the 
face, — "and  I  have  only  one  reply  to  make  to  it.  Do  you 
believe  that  I  deserve  it?" 

The  question  was  so  abrupt,  that  it  disturbed  me;  and 
I  knew  not  what  I  said;  but,  to  my  last  hour,  Sarah,  I 
shall  not  forget  what  he  said — no,  nor  what  he  did. 


16  RANDOLPH. 

He  arose,  and  came  to  me; — deliberately  folded  his 
arms:  and  never  changed  his  attitude,  or  voice,  or  look, 
till  I  was  ready  to  fall  at  his  foot. 

"Sir,"  said  he, — "I  understand  vour  embarrassment.-— 
I  knew  the  cause.  Your  cousin  Sarah,  a  high  minded, 
but  very  imprudent  girl; — nay  sir,  you  will  hear  me  out, 
I  hope — has  endeavoured  to  persuade  herself,  that  I  am 
an  accomplished  villain;  nay,  to  persuade  you.  You  are 
young  and  passionate,  precipitate  perhaps;  and  you  adopt- 
ed her  opinions.  But  you  had  never  seen  me.  She  had 
never  seen  me.  You  have  set  with  me  but  a  few  moments, 
and  are  convinced  that  you  have  done  me  wrong.  Is  this 
wise?  Is  it  not  as  great  an  infirmity,  to  retract  an  opi- 
nion hastily,  as  to  adopt,  or  advance  it,  hastily?  If  you 
are  generous,  I  have  you  in  my  power;  for,  where  the 
generous  have  done  wrong,  their  atonement  is  dispropor- 
tionate, enthusiastick,  injudicious.  I  am  unwilling  to 
take  advantage  of  this.  But  I  wish  you  to  judge  for  your- 
self. I  do  not  ask  you  to  go  among  my  friends; — (his 
countenance  darkened — it  was  even  melancholy)  for  I 
have  no  friends;  but  I  bid  you  go  among  my  enemies. — 
Listen  to  them, — hear  their  stories,  examine  them;  and, 
if  they  be  not  more  cunningly  devised,  than  slander  and 
falsehood  usually  are,  you  will  find  enough  there,  with- 
out hearing  the  other  side,  to  set  your  heart  at  rest. — 
Their  stories  neutralize  each  other.  Am  I  so  artful,  as 
they  pretend?  Then  how  can  they,  poor  simpletons! — 
so  plainly  foretel  my  designs?" 

Am  I  so  cautious?  So  difficult  to  elude,  or  detect? — > 
so  wise  too,  as  they  pretend?  Then  how  happens  it,  that 
so  many  of  my  secret  and  portentous  conspiracies,  the  most 
subtly  conceived; — the  most  darkly  perpetrated; — are  a 
subject  of  familiar  gossipping  to  the  whole  city?  What! 
am  I  able  to  blind  the  good  and  wise;  to  set  the  laws  of 
my  country  at  defiance?  laugh  to  scorn  the  ministers  of 
justice; — baffle  them  all — all!  except  the  feeble,  and  timid, 
and  shortsighted?  Am  I  so  weak,  think  you? — so  \  ery 
weak,  and  foolish,  as  to  lay  bare  the  mysterious  and  hid- 
den operations  of  my  heart,  before  women  and  children? 
sir ...  I  leave  you  to  judge  of  me,  for  your- 
self."   "You  have  been  cautioned  against  me. 


KAJTOOliPH.  If 

I  see  it  in  your  eyes.  You  think  better  of  me  than  you 
intended  to;— nay,«~for  it  has  been  a  common  expedient 
with  that  extraordinary  woman,  your  cousin,  the  bitterest 
enemy  that  I  have  on  earth,  I  believe,  and  perhaps  the 
most  to  be  dreaded  .  ,  .  You  have  been  told  .  .  .  yes,  I 
see  that  you  have  .  .  .  your  emotion  betrays  you,  .  .  . 
your  conscience  is  in  your  face — you  have  wronged 
me.  Sir.1  What  then?  Do  I  reproach  you  for  it?  No. 

I  forgive  you Nay,  as  I  was  'about  to  say, 

you  have  been  cautioned  against  me,  as  a  being  of  con- 
summate address — (I  started,  and  looked  him  full  in  the 
face; — but  he  betrayed  no  emotion.  Was  it  chance?  or 
how  was  it  that  he  used  your  very  words?)  One  whom, 
it  would  be  fatal  to  your  faculties  ...  to  your  liberty, 

to  approach! Did  you  believe  her?     Did  she 

believe  it  herself?  No  sir,  she  did  not.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  rhetorick  of  the  sex  .  .  .  pray,  do  not  be  offended 
with  me — I  know  your  cousin  Sarah,  better  than  you  do— 
(What  did  he  mean  by  that,  Sarah?  Has  he  ever  seen  you? 
It  could  not  be  an  idle  boast;  such  men  do  not  boast;  .  . 
nay,  it  was  rather  a  threat,  delicately  uttered  to  be  sure; 
but,  nevertheless,  a  threat,  which  I  should  have  resented 
on  the  spot,  but  for  what  followed.)  She  is  a  generous, 
heroick  girl;  but  she  has  wronged  me,  and  shall  one  day 
confess  it.  (This  was  said,  in  a  tone  of  such  solemnity, 
that  my  blood  thrilled  ...  it  was  really  awful  ...  it 
sounded  like  prophecy.) 

"No  Sir.  She  did  not  believe  it.  But  she  knew  this, 
that  a  man  must  be  magnanimous  indeed,  who  would 
.Tare  to  be  the  friend  of  another,  whom  he  had  heard  call- 
ed a  villain; — -nay,  of  one,  whom  lie  himself,  it  may  be,  had 
called  a  villain, — after  he  had  been  told  too,  that  such  was 
the  power  and  authority  of  that  villain,  that  no  man  could 
withstand,  or  resist  him!  ....  Is  it  not  so?  She  affect- 
ed to  believo  that  you  were  convinced — when  you  were 
not — when  you  only  suspected  it — of  my  evil  nature—- 
and she  predicted,  nevertheless,  that  you  would  become 
my  friend,  the  moment  that  I  opened  my  mouth  .  .  .  O, 
it  was  indeed  a  masterly  contrivance!  .  .  .  for,  no  mat- 
ter what  proof  I  offered,  there  is  not  one  man  in  a  thous- 
and, nay,  in  ten  thousand,  who  after  such  a  prediction 
C 


18  11ANBOLPH* 

would  dare  to  believe  me  an  injured  fellow  creature; — 
and  still  less,  is  there  one  that  would  dare  to  avow  it. 
I  have  done — Farewell,  Sir." 

This  was,  as  nearly  as  I  can  relate  it,  dear  Sarah,  the 
substance  of  our  conversation.  But  his  manner,  that  it 
was,  which  oppressed  me.  I  felt  humble  and  heart  smit- 
ten while  he  spoke,  ...»  I  forgot  the  little  difference 
in  our  ages;  and  I  listened  to  him,  I  declare  to  you,  like 
one  who  hears  patiently,  some  much  older,  and  wiser, 
and  better  man,  upbraiding  and  admonishing  him,  with 
the  voice  of  compassionate  authority  .  .  .  What  did  I, 
when  he  had  done?  ....  Ask  me  Sarah,  ask  me,  if  tliou 
durst  ...  I  gave  him  my  hand; — and  I  would  have 
fallen  upon  his  neck  ....  and  I  would  have  wept,  but 
for  the  shame  that  I  felt  to  weep  before  such  a  noble  crea- 
ture. I  awoke,  as  from  a  trance,  when  he  had  finished;  and 
all  the  echo  of  his  deep  solemn  voice  had  died  away.  I  saw 
Ms  great  heart  heave,  as  I  took  his  hand;  and  there  was 
a  motion  of  his  fingers,  after  they  passed  hurriedly  through 
his  beautiful  hair,  and  over  his  hollow  clear  temples, 

just  as  if  he  dashed  away  a  tear  with  them.     There 1 

have  made  my  defence.  Despise  me,  if  thou  canst. — 
Scorn  me,  trample  on  me;  but  remember,  there  will  be  a 
day  of  retribution  for  thee.  Sarah!  I  can  see  thee  weep- 
ing .  .  .  Gracious  God — surely  I  do  see  something  .  .  . 

.     1  left  off 

abruptly  Sarah,  for  my  candle  was  very  low;  and,  per- 
haps, the  painful  agitation,  in  which  I  have  been  kept  for 
a  whole  week,  together  with  the  unpleasant,  strange  soli- 
tude, about  this  old  house,  was  the  cause  of  a  singular, 

deception — hark! ....    . .  .••i.::-« ••*£% 

Again!  .  .  it  is  very  strange  ...  I 
could  have  sworn  that  some  one  was  breathing  near  me; 
and,  as  I  turned,  there  was  a  soft  sound,  that,  to  my  ear, 
seemed  like  naked  feet  .  .  .  passing  secretly  away 
from  my  elbow  ...  I  wish  that  I  was  out  of  this 
uncomfortable  old  mansion, — these  fancies  are  very  child- 
ish, to  be  sure;  and  yet,  they  agitate  me,  as  if  I  were  some 
foolish  girl,  shut  up  in  one  of  the  old  haunted  ruins  of 
...  but  this  will  never  do  ...  On  looking 
back,  I  find  that  I  was  about  saying  that  I  could  almost 


RANDOLPH.  19 

see  thee  keeping;  yes,  weeping  Sarah,  in  contrition  and 
bitterness,  for  what  thou  hast  said  of  Molton.  Good 
night!  .  .  U  is  dark  as  Egypt  already;  and  these  last 
words  are  scribbled  by  chance;  and  all  connected  toge- 
ther, for  I  dare  not  lift  my  pen  from  the  paper,  lest  I 
should  put  it  down  in  the  wrong  place. 

Farewell, — 

Good  Night. 

JOHN. 


MARY   TO  EDWARD   MOXTON. 

Washington)  Dec.  — . 
My  own  dear  Edward, 

I  have  just  left  the  President's  house.  I  have  come 
away  early — disturbed  by  another  resemblance- — but  no, 
I  will  not  regard  it.  There  are  faces  that  haunt  me, 
turn  where  I  will;  and  sometimes,  I  should  almost  fancy 
myself  surrounded  by  the  painted,  embroidered  puppets  of 

St.  James .     But  stay,  let  me  divert  my  thoughts 

I  have  come  away,  wearied  to  death,  and  heart  sick  o  ' 
their  wretched  folly  and  parade.  O,  Edward,  when  1 
used  to  listen  to  thee,  till  I  thought  my  heart  would  burst, 
and  hear  thee  talk  of  this  great  people,  so  full  of  republi- 
can simplicity,  so  stern  and  spartan-like,  "a  common- 
.wealth  of  kings,"  till  thy  strange  face  shook  all  over, 
with  the  passion  beneath  it,  like  the  reflection  of  some 
thing  terrible  in  troubled  water;  my  spirit  arose,  to  in  - 
tercede  for  them,  among  the  kings,  and  princes,  and  no- 
bility of  Europe. 

I  scorned  and  mocked  at  the  follies  of  the  old  world.' 
and  my  chest  heaved  to  participate  in  the  wise  and  axvfuf 
solemnities  of  this.  Why  did  I  trust  to  thee,  Edward? 
Thou  art  altogether  an  American.  Why  did  I  follow 
thee,  hither? 

Shall  I  tell  thee  what  I  expected  to  see?  I^will — men 
and  women — Lacedemonians,  at  least — characterised  by 

;-   • 


SO  RANDOLPH. 

N<V 

sublime  plainness  and  strength — full  of  republican  gran- 
deur,— august  in  republican  sobriety  and  steadiness;— 
<leriding,  calmly,  but  with  a  derision  that  kings  would 
not  encounter,  all  the  trapping,  and  appendage,  and 
parade,  and  nonsense  of  royalty.  But  what  have  I 
found!  Edward,  I  am  used  to  speak  plainly;  and  I  shall 
not  depart  from  my  settled  habitude,  even  though  it  may 
hurt  thee;— *-for  thou  knowest  my  veneration  for  such  men 
as  George  Washington,  and  others,  like  him,  the  growth 
of  America,  when  God,  himself,  fought  her  battles,  and 
bred  her  children;-^-and  thou  wilt  endure  my  plainness, 
while  I  lament  he'r  degeneracy. 

What  have  I  found ! .  I  will  tell  thee— a 

plebeian  nobility — a  struggle  far  precedence  between  the 
families  of  to^lay — and  the  families  of  yesterday; — paltry 
titles,  given  and  taken  by  all  ranks,  without  authority 
or  right; — our  worst  follies  and  worst  vices  awkwardly 
imitated  and  carricatured; — talent  and  virtue  in  the  dust; 
greatness  under  the  chariot  wheels  of  wealth; — a  repub- 
lican court  affecting  to  disdain  the  patricians  of  Europe — 
their  titles  and  diamonds;  their  regal  foolery;  the  hierarchy 
of  our  churches — and  the  ermine  of  our  judges  and  chan- 
cellors;— yet  loaded  with  dirty  finery;  crowded  and  blaz- 
ing with  paste  jewelry;  and  Squires  and  Honours;  and  Ex- 
cellencies! and  Bishops!  O,  is  it  not  paltry!  Nay,  Ed- 
ward, so  ridiculous  is  this  bustle  and  parade  of  imitation, 
at  times,  that  I  should  be  tempted  to  laugh  at  it,  outright, 
were  it  not  too  serious  a  thing  for  laughter,  when  consider- 
ed in  its  true  light, — the  symptom  of  a  mortal  degene- 
racy, in  a  brave  and  great  people* 

Washington,  you  must  know,  and  you  must  know  it 
in  this  way  too,  (for  your  stay  here  was  quite  too  short, 
for  you  to  make  any  observation  for  yourself)  is  a  sort 
of  metropolis;  the  city  of  "magnificent  distances"  as  the 
Abbe  somebody  called  it,  where  people  enquire  after  each 
other's  health  by  a  telegraph;  make  love  by  the  penny- 
post — and  recognise  a  difference  of  fifteen  minutes  in  the 
time  at  their  chambers  and  places  of  business — where,  as 
in  Paris,  or  London,  all  th  e  poison  and  death  of  the  whole 
system  are  concocted  at  leisure;  and  whence,  they  are  dis* 
tributed  to  all  the  healthy  extremities,  until  they  lean* 


RANDOLPH.  21 

to  languish  and  palpitate  for  the  unnatural  aliment.  But  I 
am  getting  too  serious;  and  were  I  disposed  to  be  a  little 
merry,  at  one  of  the  most  melancholy  hours  of  my  life, 
which  is  exactly  this,  I  should  continue  the  illustration, 
and  inform  my  Edward,  that  I  have  lately  seen  some  of  the 
natural  consequences  of  excess; — met  a  few  sufficiently 
alarming  contractions — disorders — and  spasms,  within 

the  last  week — ah!  the  door  opens  — *  *  *  *  * 

a  letter  from  thee,  Edward! — 0,  how  welcome  to  my  ex- 
hausted and  sick  heart. 

I  have  read  it.  Boaster! — would  that  I  had  thee, 
here! — I  knew  not  what  I  should  do — fatigued  and  wea- 
ried to  death  as  I  am, — with  thy  rebellious  and  confident 
spirit — (that  is  a  badly  constructed  sentence  Edward;— 
it  is  easily  misunderstood,  if  thou'rtin  an  evil  disposition, 
but  I  have  not  the  heart  to  mend  it.)  I£r-oh  if  thou 
wert  here,  how  could  I  rebuke  thee; — indeed,  I  know 
not — perhaps,  turn  to  thee,  dear,  and  fall  asleep  in  thy 
bosom.  O,  come  to  me! — It  is  so  wearing,  this  imperti- 
nent routine  of  folly  and  dissipation,  that  I  had  rather 
hear  thy  voice  in  its  sternest  mood,  when  I  kneel  before 
thee,  trembling  in  every  joint,  than  endure  this  chill  and 
lonely,  desolate  feeling,  which  follows  the  riotous  excite- 
ment of  such  a  place  as :  No,  I  cannot  write  any 

more — my  heart  is  too  full — good  night,  Edward — good 
night — dear,  dear  Edward — good  night! 

Forever  and  for  ever — thine! 

MARY  •— . 

Morning. 

I  have  just  read  thy  letter  again,  Edward.  It  is  hard- 
ly light  enough  yet,  to  see  the  characters  that  I  trace  with 
my  pencil;  and  it  is  exceedingly  cold;  yet,  here  I  am,  sit- 
ting up  in  my  bed;  my  port  folio  before  me;  and  the  cold 
day-light  shining  on  the  paper,  with  a  feeble  and  sickly 
lustre — poh! — I  will  be  in  better  spirits.  I  will  answer 
thee,  as  I  would  that  thou  shouldst  me,  had  I  written 
thee  such  a  letter  as  thine.  So— away  with  all  despon- 
dency and  complaint.  For  awhile,  I  will  be  proud  of 
C2 


22  RANDOLPH. 

heart,  and  forget  that  I  am  in  a  land  of  strangers,— hap- 
less and  alone — guilty — O  God! — and,  perhaps,  even  now, 
now  while  I  am  writing,  a  widow  indeed,  abandoned, 
not  by  her  husband,  not  by  her  legitimate  lord — no,  but 
hy  the  spoiler  of  her  fame — the  rifler  of  her  wretched 

heart — a  lover! 0,  Edward!  kill  me,  if  thou  wilt,.! 

can  endure  that9  dear,  from  thy  hand;  but  do  not  abandon 
me — do  not  tell  me  again  that  thou  canst — O,  no— think 
what  thou  wilt,  meditate  what  thou  wilt — but  O,  in  mer- 
cy, do  not  tell  me,  unless  thou  wouldst  see  me  dying  of  a 
broken  heart,  upon  the  threshold  of  thy  dwelling,  do 
not  tell  me  that  thou  ever  couldst  abandon  me,  whatever 
may  happen.  No — I  will  not — I  do  not  believe  it.  Thou 
durst  not — O,  Edward  forgive  me! — I  am  distracted — 
I  know  not  what  I  say — Yet,  thou  durst;  for  thou  durst 
do  any  thing.  Do  not  be  angry  with  me,  dear — forgive 
me,  and  do  with  me  what  thou  wilt; — yet  do  not  tell  me 
so  plainly  that  thou  art  dying — O,  no — nor  of  what  thou 
couldst  do — no,  no  don't  do  that; — do  any  thing  but  that. 
That  will  kill  me.  Nothing  else  can.  My  parents,  my 
poor  parents — they  know  that  I  am  not  made  like  other 
women; — nay,  why  remind  thee  of  that.  Unnatural  as 
I  was  to  them,  thou  implacable  man,  what  have  I  been  to 
thee,  but  the  most  dutiful^  the  most  affectionate,  devout 
and  trembling  woman?  And  couldst  thou  abandon  me? 
O,  Edward,  what  have  I  done  to  thee,  that  thou  shouldst 
dare — what!  dare  again — indeed,  I  forgot  myself,  but 
this  language  is  so  natural  to  me;  and  then,  it  would  be 
so  proper,  if  addressed  to  any  other  human  creature — than 
to  Edward.  What  wonder  then,  if  I  som<  times  forget 
that  thou  art  an  exception  to  the  family  of  man.  Ed- 
ward! come  to  me — 1  cannot  answer  thy  letter.  I  meant 
to;  I  took  my  pencil  up  for  the  purpose;  (for  the  ink  is 
frozen)  but  I  have  been  unable  to  see,  plainly,  what  thou 
hast  written; — my  eyes  are  dim,  and  blood  shot — I  hope 
not  with  an  evil  spirit — my  own  writing  looks  unlike  the 
tracing  of  lead — it  is  fiery,  red,  and  luminous.  No 
matter;  -  come  to  me,  Edward,  and  I  will  forgive  thee 
all  __- Curse  me,  if  thou  wilt,  but  come  to  me. 

M. 


RANDOLPH. 
SARAH  RAMSAY  TO  JOHN  OMAR. 

New -Fork, . 

What,  John,  "no  argument,"  none! — "no  entreaty;  no 
expostulation!" — I  quote  your  own  words.  In  my  last, 
I  promised  to  communicate  something  of  moment,  which 
I  learnt,  accidentally,  on  my  route;  but,  before  I  do 
that,  I  must  look  over  your  letters  together.  How  is  it 
that  I  find  so  many  contradictions  in  them?  You,  sure- 
ly, do  not  mean  to  deceive  me;  and,  I  believe,  are  incapa-^ 
ble  of  a  deliberate  misrepresentation;  yet,  on  recurring 
to  two  or  three,  (I  go  no  further  back)  I  find  many  things 
that,  to  me,  are  irreconcileable.  You  often  appear  to 
forget  what  you  have  already  written,  or  said  upon  the 
subject,  that  is  most  interesting  to  us;  you  abound  in  re- 
petitions; beautiful,  but  extravagant  language;  and,  I 
know  not  what  else,  that,  unwilling  as  I  am  to  suspect  you, 
have  put  me  upoTi  examination;  the  result  of  \A  Inch  is,  that, 
after  making  all  due  allowance  for  your  rashness,  warmth 
and  impetuosity,  I  find  many  things,  yes,  many  John, 
which  are  mysterious  and  dark  to  me» 

But  let  me  mention  some  of  them,— in  order  as  they 
occur,  in  your  own  letters.  I  shall  leave  you  to  explain 
them; — perhaps  I  am  too  serious,  cousin; — but,  really,  it 
appears  no  light  matter  to  me,  for  one  so  naturally  frank 
and  ingenuous  as  you  really  are,  by  nature,  to  be  caught 
doubling  on  his  track 

In  your  first  letter,  (,the  first  of  the  three,  now  before 
me)  you  speak  of  Jane,  in  a  manner,  that,  as  I  then  told 
you,  was  alarming  to  me.  I  cautioned  you  emphatically 
against  her,  in  my  reply.  I  knew  her  well,  and  I  never 
loved  her.  She  is  an  artful,  cold  hearted,  showy,  un- 
principled girl;  and  I  should  have  been  more  pleased, 
had  you  been  more  struck,  and  astonished,  at  her  talent 
and  deportment,  at  the  first  sight.  Why? — for  the  rea- 
sons that  I  have  already  assigned.  Sudden  and  violent 
impressions  are  not  lasting,  cousin;  but  they  that  insin- 
uate themselves,  more  delicately  and  tenderly,  they  are 
to  be  dreaded.  Jane  knows  your  disposition  well — she 
knows  that  you  cannot  love  a  brilliant  or  obtrusive  girl;— 


24  RANDOLPH. 

and,  I  am  sure,  that  she  will  withhold  every  manifesta- 
tion of  her  dazzling  and  unrivalled  power,  merely  for  the 
purpose  of  appearing  amiable.  I  told  you  this  at 
first.  I  foretold  her  whole  plan;  and  was — naturally 
enough,  laughed  at,  for  my  pains.  Yet,  she  has  done 
all  that  I  foretold;  and  you  not  only  have  kept  it  a  secret 
from  me,  but  led  me  into  a  belief  that  you  were  neither 
interested  nor  amused  with  her,  while  you  were  actually 
in  her  power,  to  a  great  degree.  I  wrote  to  you,  and  prayed 
for  a  direct  and  explicit  answer.  You  wrote  a  letter,  to 
be  sure,  in  reply;  hut  it  was  no  answer.  You  evaded  all 
my  questions.  Once  more,  however,  I  am  resolved  to 
try  you;  and  I  shall  probe  deeply,  because  I  know  your 
infirmities;  and,  because  I  believe,  that,  if  you  have  the 
courage  and  manhood  to  persevere,  as  you  have  promised 
me,  you  will  become  a  distinguished  man.  John — your 
reputation  is  clear  to  me.  You  know  that  I  am  not  in 
the  habit  of  saying  what  I  do  not  mean;  or,  of  using 
words  bigger  than  my  thought;  and,  I  hope,  therefore, 
that  you  will  take  what  I  am  about  to  say,  in  the  very 
spirit,  with  which  it  is  written.  /  would  lay  down  my 
life,  cousin  John,  cheerfully,  to  promote  ymirtrue  happiness. 
Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  remember  that: — and,  if  you 
please,  preserve  this  letter,  to  try  my  sincerity  hereafter, 
in  any  vicissitude.  I  shall  never  repeat  it; — but  I  hope 
that  it  will  not  be  forgotten. 

Let  me  return  to  the  subject.  You  ar-e  vain.  You 
acknowledge  it;  and,  at  times  I  think,  are  ashamed  of  it. 
But  your  vanity  lies  deeper  than  you  imagine;  and,  what 
is  worse,  on  a  side  that  you  do  not  suspect.  You  are 
most  accessible  on  that  point, — which,  I  dare  say,  you 
have  never  thought  of.  If  a 'woman  would  win  you,  and 
had  the  art  to  manage  you  steadily,  she  would  never 
praise  your  talents;  for,  of  them,  you  have  certainly  a  ve- 
ry just  opinion  now.  I  do  not  say  this,  en  badinage,  John, 
to  fall  for  once,  into  your  weakness,  of  saying  in  another 
language,  what  may  be  so  much  better  said  in  our  own, 
but  because  it  is  true.  After  many  mortifications, — ma- 
ny disappointments,  and  much  heart  burning,  you  have 
arrived  at  a  pretty  fair,  rational  estimate  of  your  own 
talent.  A  woman,  therefore,  who  attempts  to  win  you. 


RANDOLPH*  2Jf 

if  she  act  wisely  and  artfully,  will  affect  to  discover  some 
qualities  in  you,  that  the  world  have  never  seen.  All 
that  is  obvious  to  others,  she  will  overlook.  She  will 
never  attempt  to  dazzle  or  astonish  you.  But  she  will 
do  this; — she  will  aim  either  to  subdue  you  by  her  timi- 
dity, and  gentleness  of  spirit; — or  by  an  affectionate  bash- 
fulness,  constantly  breaking  out,  through  all  her  attempts 
at  concealment  and  restraint.  She  will  get  you,  grad- 
ually, to  become  accustomed  to  her  society.  She  will 
adopt  your  opinions,  not,  by  avowing  them  loudly,  and 
perpetually,  with  her  lips;  Uut  by  acting  in  conformity  to 
them.  Her  deportment  will  be  retiring  and  melancholy; 
timid  and  abstracted;  and  there  will  be,  with  an  occasion- 
al pensiveness,  and  resignation,  a  dart  of  fire  thrown 
out,  now  and  then,  to  show  you  that  she  does  not  want 
for  spirit.  She  will  appear  to  have  no  relish  for  the 
world;  her  very  eyes  will  betray  a  sort  of  willingness  to 
be  out  of  it,  at  the  same  time  that  «Kc  will  appear  too 
pious  to  wish  for  death;  and  too  submissive,  to  rebel 
against,  or  even  to  repine  at,  the  dispensation,  under 
which  she  is  fading:  nay,  if  she  be  truly  what  I  think  Jane 
is,  she  will  manifest  a  continual,  but  apparently  reluc- 
tant deference  to  your  opinion,  taste,  thought  and  judg- 
ment; but  this  will  be  a  delicate  and  insinuating  defer- 
ence, invisible  to  all  but  yourself.  It  will  appear  to  you, 
the  unwilling  obedience  of  a  gentle  spirit,  afraid  of  your 
influence,  alarmed  at  your  ascendency,  and  on  her  guard 
against  your  power.  She  will  even  dress  in  your  favour- 
ite colour; — and  wear  her  beautiful  hair,  after  the  man- 
ner that  she  alone  has  heard  you  commend  in  some  other, 
or  in  some  picture,  or  piece  of  statuary;  but — she  will  not 
do  this,  immediately  after  she  has  heard  your  opinion; — 
or,  if  that  opinion  were  uttered  before  a  third  person,  she 
may  not  do  it  at  all,  because  she  knows  well,  that  the  self 
love  of  a  man  like  you,  is  never  so  fastidiously  sensible, 
as  when  it  finds,  what  it  is  apt  to  call,  a  simple  and  inno- 
cent heart,  offering  secret  tribute  to  him,  unconsciously; 
no,  she  will  not  do  this  immediately,  lest  other  women 
might  baffle  her,  or  other  men  put  you  upon  your  guard; 
but  she  will  do  it  soon  enough  afterward,  to  attract  the 
attention  of  a  vain  man; — and,  in  that  way  too,  which  he 


£6  RANDOLPH. 

cannot  help  seeing.     Such  flattery  to  a  sensitive  man, 
if  well  timed,  is  really  irresistable.     All  women  know 
this;  but  few  have  the  tact  to  profit  by  it.     1  have  seen 
more  than  one  sensible  girl  completely  thrown  out,  by 
overdoing  the  part:  and  many  a  beautiful  one,   who  did 
it,  continually,  without  knowing  it.  Would  they  learn  the 
art  in  perfection?     Let  them  watch  the  manner  of  a  wo- 
man, that  really  is  in  love.     To  her  lover,  every  thing 
that  she  says  or  does;  every  intonation  of  voice,  and  eve- 
ry movement  of  her  body  or  face,  tell  the  tale;  but,  while 
they  tell  the  tale  to  him — it  is  to  him  alone — to  the  world, 
it  is  all  an  impenetrable  mystery.     In  proportion  as  he 
is  flattered,  the*  world  are  blinded:  and,  in  proportion  as 
they  are  blinded,  if  his  be  a  delicate  mind,  he  is  flattered. 
Now,  tell  me  the  truth,  John.     Is  not  this,  exactly  what 
Jane  does?     Is  not  she  full  of  such   unpremeditated 
witchery? — have  you  not  already  become  so  accustomed 
to  her  society,  that  jou  are  uneasy,  if  you  do  not  see  her 
on  some  regular,certain  evening'?  T)o  you  not  find  too,  that, 
one  way  or  another,  you  are  more  amrmore  with  her,  every 
\veek  of  your  life,  accidentally,  as  you  think- — but,  are  not 
the  intervals  of  absence  less  frequent  and  less  long?  Have 
you  not  learnt  to  hear  your  names  coupled,  without  any 
feeling  of  surprise,  by  the  gossipping  people  of  the  town? 
Answer  me,  boldly  cousin; — and  then,  for  my  last  ques- 
tion on  this  subject,  let  me  ask  you  this, — for  this  is  the 
balancing  point — the  verdict — "the  issue"  as  your  young 
friend,  the  lawyer,  would  say,  upon  which  all  your  fu- 
ture happiness  may  depend.     Have  you  not  learnt  to 
look  with  compassion  upon  all  the  bodily  infirmities  of 
that  girl? — to  forget  many  circumstances  in  her  situa- 
tion, and  in  that  of  her  family,  which,  to  a  reasonable 
man,  nay,  to  yourself,  a  few  months  since,    would  have 
been  not  only  rational,  but  insurmountable  objections  to 
a  marriage?— a  marriage! — you  are   amazed.     Yes — I 
dare  say  that  you  are.     But  hear  me.     Habits  are  dan- 
gerous things;  the  most  destructive  are  formed  slowly 
and  quietly.     Men  do  not  fall  in  love,  where  they  expect 
it — men  of  sense,  I  mean.     Why? — Because  they  go,  for- 
tified in  adamant,  to  encounter  women,  who  are  thought 
especially  beautiful  or  perilous.     Yes; — and  we  are  nev- 
er in  such  danger  of  being  overcome  by  any  habit,  as 


RANDOLPH.  27 

when  we  believe  that,  it  is  at  our  own  choice,  to  tear  our- 
selves away  from  it,  whenever  we  please.  Sampson  and 
Gulliver  were  both  sleeping,  when  they  were  bound; — and 
cobwebs  have  held  stronger  men,  who  were  weak  only 
as  you  are,  cousin,  in  their  security;  — they  fall  from  too 
much  self  confidence.  Com  passion  has  destroyed  many. 
It  may  make  you, — what  you  little  believe  now;  and  what 
you  would  have  mocked  at,  six  months  ago,  the  husband 
of  a  haughty,  sick  girl,  of  an  ambitious  spirit,  and  most 
unamiuble  temper.  Tell  me,  John— I  entreat  you — have 
you  not  already  learnt  to  regard  yourself  as,  in  some 
measure,  necessary  to  the  happiness  of  Jane?  O — I  am 
afraid  that  you  have. 

If  so,  you  are  Ipst,  — forever  lost;  for,  if  she  can  once 
persuade  you  that  her  happiness  is  at  your  mercy,  your 
noble,  unthinking  heart,  will  be  offered  up  in  sacrifice. 
Cousin — I  tremble  for  you.  Yet  I  must  seal  this  long, 
long  letter,  here;  and  delay  my  other  admonitions,  until  I 
hear,  explicitly,  in  reply  to  these.  .  .  ';*,v 

Adieu. 

SARAH. 

Bless  me — on  folding  it,  I  find  that  the  sheet  is  entire- 
ly covered.  What  shall  I  do?  It  would  be  a  pity  to 
send  a  blank  envelope;  so,  I  will  even  delay  the  whole, 
till  to-morrow,  and  then  try  to  finish  my  sermon. — 

%        *         *         *         #         ^        #         **         # 

*  Well  cousin,  I  have  read  over 
what  I  wrote  last  evening;  and,  I  find  that  there  is  no- 
thing material  omitted,  except  the  text;  and  that,  you  will 
be  kind  enough  to  bear  in  mind,  is  your  vanity;  not  the 
vanity  of  exciting  love,  and  being  beloved.  Persuade 
you  that  you  have  made  a  woman  love  you,  and  she  may 
do  what  she  will  with  you. 

And  now,  if  you  please,  for  the  mystery  and  darkness 
complained  of.  Why  have  you  never  told  me  to  what  ex- 
tent your  intimacy  with  Jane  had  gone?  Wny,  when 
you  must  have  seen  the  blessed  Juliet,  the  dear  suffering 
Juliet,  so  often,  have  you  always  spoken  of  her,  as  it  by 
report?  Were  you  afraid  to  tell  the  truth?  Confess  it, 
John;  you  may  as  well.  After  all  that  I  have  heard  you 


2  RANDOLPH. 

say  of  "puppy  love,"  and  childish  marriages,  without 
any  view  to  futurity,  sickness,  a  family,  or  widowhood, 
you  were  ashamed  to  tell  me,  that  you  were  drifting  to  the 
same  precipice. 

But  there  is  something,  yet  more  serious,  to  he  laid  at 
your  door.  After  your  interview  with  that  Molton; — 
that  wretch,  whose  very  name  is  so  hateful  to  me,  that 
my  hand  is  convulsed,  and  my  frame  shivers,  as  I  write 
it,  you  told  m.e  that  he  used  "no  argument,  no  expostula- 
tion, no  entreaty"  to  convince  you  that  he  was  an  injured 
man.  I  reply — I  demand  the  particulars — you  answer 
me.  And  lo! — this  creature  of  the  imagination,  instead 
of  rebuking,  in  the  sublime  quiet  of  a  great  heart,  as  you 
had  represented,  all  suspicion  and  doubt,  and  dishonour; 
had  really  argued  the  question  of  his  guilt  and  innocence, 
before  you,  in  a  masterly  style — deliberately — and  .  .  . 

John — dear  John — I  have  no  more  to  say — no,  nothing 
— except  this.  Jane  has  conquered  you,  by  appealing, 
adroitly,  to  your  generosity — and  he — lie  (for  I  will  never 
write  his  name  again,  if  I  can  help  it) — has  conquered 
you,  in  the  same  way. 

You  ask  me  what  he  means,  by  saying  that  he  knows 
me.  He  is  a  liar.  That  is  a  phrase,  cousin,  that  you 
never  heard  me  use  before; — but  he  deserves  it.  He  does 
not  know  me. 

You  ask  too,  if  he  has  ever  seen  me.  I  answer  no — I 
believe  not.  I  have  seen  him;  but,  it  was  at  a  distance, 
and  in  a  crowd.  He  was  pointed  out  to  me  by  Juliet  her- 
self. He  threatens  me  too;  does  he? — well,  I  do  not 
tremble.  Nay, — if  he  can  make  me  feel  that  I  have 
wronged  him,  I  will  go  down  on  my  knees  before  him — 
and  your  prophecie%s  shall  be  fulfilled.  Monstrous! — if 
aught  could  add  to  the  unutterable  atrocity  of  that  man 
— after  his  deliberate  abuse  of  the  high  talent  that  heaven 
hath  given  him; — after  his  coldblooded,  profligate  aban- 
donment, of  the  highest  and  holiest  affections  of  the  hu- 
man heart—it  is  this  immoveable  bearing.  But  heaven 
will  not  be  insulted,  forever.  I  shall  live  to  see  him — 
perhaps  it  is  now  my  time  to  prophesy — ,  scathed  and 
riven  with  the  judgment  of  Him,  who  shall  not  be  derided 
•with  impunity. 

Once  more,  Farewell. 


RANDOLPH.  29 

EDWARD   M01TON   TO   MA11T  HOWAHD. 

Washington, * 

I  am  astonished! — at  a  publick  house! — what  could  pos- 
sess you? 1 — I why  did  you  not  write, 

and  tell  me? — 

Forgive  me,  my  dear  girl; — but,  indeed,  you  have  no 
idea  how  cruelly  I  have  suffered  by  your  silence — your 
illness  too! — ah,  f  knew  by  the  manner,  in  which  your 
letter  concluded,  that  I  could  not,to  your  rescue,  too  speedi- 
ly. In  fifteen  minutes,  I  was  in  the  saddle.  I  am  here — 
here,  where  you  slept  but  two  nights  ago; — yet,  where 
are  you?  Whither  went  you  in  such  haste?—!  came  to  you, 
love — ready,  with  my  lips,  to  draw  out  the  poison  from 
every  wound  of  your  poor  heart — O,  Mary,  where  art 
thou! — Raving  perhaps;- — forsaken — helpless — even  as 
thou  saidst  in  thy  letter; — and  1,  what  can  I  do  for  thee? 
pale,  weary — my  very  blood,  the  little  that  there  is  left 
of  it,  all  running,  with  a  sensation  of  mortal  coldness  to 
my  temples.  Where  art  thou  Mary?  The  iron  is  rusting  in 
my  heart;  and  no  hand  but  thine,  dear,  can  pluck  iteut — 
O,  no — [  did  not  mean  it.  1  did  not—believe  me.  .  I  do 
love  thee,  Mary — love  thee  beyond  all — all — in  heaven, 
and  earth. Ah! a  paper!  *  *  *  *  * 

Bless  thee  love — heaven  forever  bless  thee!  But  how 
couldst  thou  foresee  this?  Didst  thou  know,  love,  that 
I  should  inhabit  thy  chamber  so  soon? — so  soon  throw  my- 
self upon  that  pillow? — O,  1  see  the  motive  that  agitated 
thee.  Th'»u  art  gone,  lest  our  secret  should  be  told  in 
thy  delirium.  I  follow  thee.  This  line  is  sufficient. — 

"To  the  mansion,"  says  thy  billet why,  then,  I  must 

have  passed  thee  on  the  road  *  *  *  *  1  must  return 

1  shall  send  this  by  William,  charging  thee  not  to  en- 
ter that  house.  The  negotiation  is  not  yet  completed; 
and  my  agent  has  kept  my  name  a  secret  till  now;  so, 
my  dear  Mary,  if  he  should  overtake  thee,  before  thy  ar- 
rival, let  me  pray  thee  to  drive  into  the  city — secretly  as 
po ss'ble — and  rest  at  Madam  Waltons,  where  I  shall  be 
within  an  hour  afterward. 
D 


30  RANDOLPH. 

Be  very  careful— as  my  sister,  thou  wilt  have  to  be  es- 
pecially guarded,  while  we  are  there,  which  shall  be  no 
longer  than  while  William  can  light  a  fire  in  our  rooms 
at . 

E.  M. 


JOHN   TO    SARAH   RAMSAY. 

Really,  Sarah,  I  do  not  know  what  to  say  to  your  ex- 
traordinary letter.  Sometimes  I  feel  hurt  and  mortified; 
and  then  a  little  angry;  but,  at  last,  I  have  come  to  a  resolu- 
tion, to"  answer  it,  plainly,  and  to  the  point.  You  once 
complained  of  my  long  letters;  and,  when,  in  one  of  mine, 
that  afterward  fell  into  your  hands,  1  said,  with  some 
little  bitterness,  perhaps,  that  there  were  persons,  who 
could  endure  long  letters  from  me;  you  reproached  me 
for  it; — -silently,  to  be  sure,  but  so  as  to  make  me  feel  that 
I  had  behaved  like  a  child.  Now,  I  do  not  complain  of 
long  letters,  unless  where  a  long  conversation,  from  the 
same  person,  on  the  same  subject,  would  be  tiresome;  and 
I  am  really  thankful  for  yours,  the  longest  and  cruellest 
that  you  ever  wrote. 

Yes— I  am  extravagant.  I  am  vain, — and  I  do  not 
always  proportion  my  word  to  my  thought;  for  all 

which,   I   am  sorry,  and and but  no   matter — 

I  will  not  promise,  as  I  used  to,  in  such  cases,  never  to  of- 
fend again,  in  the  same  way, — because  that  were  hnpos- 

^sible  to  perform.  1  will  only  say,  my  dear,  excellent 
cousin,  that  I  will  undertake  a  thorough  and  serious  re- 
formation in  the  matter.  I  shall  not  succeed  at  once; — 
I  know  that  I  sha*nt — and  shall  occasionally  provoke  your 
animadversion,  for  a  long  time,  I  dare  say;  but,  in  the 

.  end,  I  hope  to  prevail.  Habits,  that  are  long  in  forming, 
are  long  in  correcting; — awkward  enough — is'nt  it,  Sa- 
rah? But  you  will  understand  me,  and  that  is  all  that  I 
desire,  at  present. 

You  are  wrong,  and  ungenerous  too,  for  the  first  time, 
in  your  opinion  of  Jane.  She  is  not  the  artful  girl  that 
you  suppose; — there  is  much  more  of  innocence,  kind- 
ness, and  simplicity  in  her  disposition,  than  you  would 


RANDOLPH.  31 

imagine.  But — I  do  not  like  her.  T  never  could  love 
her — and  I  have  told  her  so! — not,  to  be  sure,  in  .so  ma- 
ny words;  but  she  happened  to  play  off  some  of  her  man- 
agement, a  little  too  adroitly,  in  the  very  way  that  you 
mentioned;  and  so,  I  thought  it  was  time  to  speak  plainly; 
as  plainly  as  I  could,  without  wounding  her,  or  distress- 
ing myself.  She  understood  me,  and  I  left  off  going  to 
the  house  for  about  a  month;  and  then  renewed  my  visits; 
but,  scarcely  had  I  got  upon  my  old  familiar  footing, — 
than  I  caught  her  at  the  same  manoBuvreing  again.  I 
abandoned  the  house  entirely,  for  a  time;  and,  finally, 
managed  to  give  her  a  better  bargain — in  our  acquain- 
tance of  the  hills.  They  will  soon  be  married. 

So  that,  so  far  as  Jane  is  concerned,  your  advice, 
which  is  excellent,  and  made  me  laugh  more  than  once, 
till  the  tears  came  into  my  eyes,  while  I  was  compar- 
ing it,  with  what  had  actually  taken  place,  is  altogether 
gratuitous.  And  here,  you  know  that  I  might  stop;— 
but  to  give  you  a  proof  of  my  unreserved  sincerity  to- 
ward her,  who  would  lay  down  her  life  for  me, — t  can- 
not help  telling  you,  that  1  have  been  as  constant  a  visi- 
ter,  as  you  have  heard,  at  Mrs.  Palmer's  fire  place; 
but  my  visits  were  not  to  Jane.  To  whom,  then?  To 
nobody.  But  why  did  I  go?  I'll  tell  you,  frankly,  Sa- 
rah;— to  be  near  a  sweet  girl,  who  is  dying  in  a  con- 
sumption. O,  no,  not  to  talk,  or  laugh  with  Jane — no, 

but  to  look  at shall  I  name  her — the  innocent,  the 

affectionate,  the  dying  Juliet.  How  blind  are  the  world! 
Nay, — even  the  acute  Sarah,  and  the  heart  broken, 
creature,  whom  I  have  gone  to  sit  by,  and  listen  to' 
that  I  might  come  away  afterward,  and  weep,  even  they 
are  as  blind  as  the  world.  I  have  been  accused  of  lov- 
ing all  but  her; — all! and  yet,  about  her  alone,  hath 

my  spirit  lingered,  like  one  held  by  enchantment,  fearing 
to  breathe  or  speak,  night  after  night,  without  daring  to 
look  her  in  the  face,  or  even  to  approach  her— the  sweet 
sufferer.  O  Sarah — I  have  set  by  her  while  her  delicate 
frame  shivered,  and  her  very  hands  were  unsteady,  upon 
the  table,  where  they  rested,  when  some  distant  allusion 
was  made  to  her  destroyer,  till  all  the  blood  in  my  body 
was  boiling  up  against  him — yes,  he  must  be  a  villain — 


2  RANDOLPH* 

such  a  sight  were  better  than  all  the  argument  in  the 
world — and  yet — no,  no — I  will  see  him  first — hear  his 
story — sound  him  to  the  heart  "Have  I  paid  her  atten- 
tion?" No.  "Do  I  love  her?"—- 1  know  not,— but  I  com- 
passionate her; — and,  I  would  die,  to  make  her  happier. 
Toward  all  other  women,  my  faculties  approach  loftily, 
and  undismayed.  But  when  I  attempt  to  approach  her,  O, 
there  is  a  feeling  of  religion; — a  something  that  I  cannot 
express — that  rebukes  me — and  1  stand  before  her  meek, 
uncomplaining  gentleness,  with  a  mixture  of  sorrow,  and 
trembling,  and  self  reproach,  that  I  am  of  the  same 
species,  with  a  creature,  who  could  meditate  aught  of  mis- 
chief to  one  like  her. 

O— -I  well  nigh  forgot  to  tell  you,  that  Molton  has  a 
beautiful  half-sister,  a  most  queen-like  creature,  who  has 
been  some  weeks  at  Washington,  the  wonder  and  idolatry 
of  the  place.  He  has  just  returned  with  her;  and,  it  is  said, 
intends  going  over  to  Europe.  I  hope  not.  \  am  very 
earnest  to  see  Maria  Howard  as  she  is  called.  She  has 
been  seriously  ill,  f~  anr told;  and  he  is  the  most  affection- 
ate brother  in  the  world — constantly  with  her,  since  last 
Tuesday  evening,  when  they  arrayed. 

Thank  heaven!  I  have  sold  the  house; — and  I  am  now 
at  liberty  to  pursue  my  studies,  just  as  I  desire. 

J.  O. 


FRANK   TO    SARAH  RAMSAY. 

's  Place,  Jan.  — . 

What  is  all  this  correspondence,  between  you  and  bro- 
ther John,  about,  coz?  It  looks  very  suspicious,  let  me 
tell  you,  when  such  an  au — aug — august, — yes,  that's  the 

word when  such   an  "august  creature"  as  you  are, 

is  found  interchanging  whole  quires  of  paper,  with  such 
a  madman  as  brother  John.  The  world  will  talk,  Sally; 

and  I  warn  you  in  season :  so  good  bye .     Now 

dont  tell  me  again,  that  I  never  wrote  a  long  letter  in 
my  life.  Ft  is  true, — this  is  the  first,  and  probably  the 
last;  for,  really  I'd  rather  talk  myself  into  a  consumption, 


RANDOLPH.  S3 

as  John  has  Already,  than  scribble  myself  cold,  as  I  have 
now,  to  one  that  will  curl  her  hair  with  the  tenderest 

things  that  I  can  say,  and  so .     No — I  can't  eke 

out  another  line.  It  must  go,  as  it  is; — but,  if  you  ever 
reply,  pray  be  good  enough  to  say,  how  the  devil  you 
manage  to  write  so  many  pages,  when  it  worries  me  in- 
to a  fever,  to  write  a  few  sentences. 

Jldios, 

FRANK. 

0, 1  open  this  to  tell  you  the  best  thing  in  this  world, 
You  know  that  John  has  sold  his  house.  I  dare  say  that 
he  has  told  you  of  it.  But  to  whom,  think  you? — that's* 
the  question! — to  whom?  To  the  agent  of  Edward  Molton! 
— your  chief  favorite! — you  know.  Lord,  how  I  laughed 
at  him.  It  was  admirably  managed:  and  Molton  is  in 
actual  possession,  at  this  moment.  Sarah — I  can't — • 
I  can't  laugh; — it  makes  me  serious  when  I  think  of  the 

villain :  its  a  good  trick,  though^  but,  damn  him — I 

say  it,  emphatically,  damn  him. 

F. 


SARAH   TO   FRANK. 

My  Dear  Cousin, 

I  thank  you  for  your  foolish  letter,  and  hasten  to  set 
you,  hair- brained  as  you  are,  upon  the  scent  of  our  prey, 
a  wild  beast  cousin,  that  may  be  tracked  in  blood.  Judge 
of  my  earnestness,  when  I  consent  to  overlook  your 
swearing,  and  address  you,  seriously.  But  so  it  is.  I 
have  just  received  a  letter  from  Washington,  which  I 
must  commit  to  your  care.  Do  not  deceive  me,  Frank. 
I  think  that  I  know  you.  That  unthinking  levity  of 
yours,  is  aifectation.  You  are  boisterous,  and  rude,  that 
you  may  not  be  suspected  of  sentiment.  Is  it  not  so? — 
Have  you  not  been  too  keenly  alive  to— but  no.  It  is 
enough  for  me,  that  you  have  a  steady  hand,  and  a  stout 
heart.  Will  you  do  me  a  favour?  I  want  to  put  your 


34  RANDOLPH. 

life  at  hazard.  But  that  is  not  all.  That  you  will  per- 
mit, I  am  sure,  whatever  may  be  the  cause.  But  I  de- 
mand what  is  more  difficult  for  you  to  perform; — yet,  the 

cause  is  worthy  of  it a  continual  effort.     Can  you 

be  a  man? — stern,  inflexible  and  serious,  for  a  while; — 
a  few  weeks  only.  You  can — you  will.  I  shall  under- 
stand that  you  are  ready  to  be,  what  I  am  sure  you  are 
capable  of  being,  with  all  your  constitutional  rashness, 
and  affected  frivolity,  a  prudent,  but  implacable  minis- 
ter of  justice,  if  you  do  not  refuse,  by  return  mail. 

By  the  enclosed,  you  will  perceive  that  \  have  good 
reason  to  suspect  that  the  girl,  whom  you  will  recollect 
only,  as  Helen,  and  speak  of,  in  the  same  way,  when  you 
write  to  me,  lest  any  of  our  letters  should  miscarry,  is 
really  in  this  country,  after  all: — nay — that  she  is,  in 
what  capacity  I  know  not,  whether  wife,  or  mistress,  a 
follower  of  Edward  Molton! — You  are  thunderstruck. 

But,  I  have  no  time  to  explain.  You  will  perceive 
also,  who  and  what  she  is,  by  the  enclosed;  which,  af- 
ter reading  it,  I  beg  you  to  return  to  me.  Perhaps  the 
tremendous  riddle  is  about  to  be  unfolded.  O,  how  sin- 
cerely, how  fervently,  do  I  pray  to  our  Heavenly  Father, 
that  it  may  be!  Frank — my  dear,  dear  Frank,  think 
what  I  am  trusting  to  you; — the  honour  of  a  whole  fami- 
ly. Ah,  be  not  indiscreet,  or  precipitate.  I  have  chosen 
you,  in  preference  to  John,  because  I  think  it  safer; — for, 
to  deal  plainly  with  you,  nobody  would  ever  suspect  me 
of  employing  you,  in  an  affair  of  so  much  delicacy  and 
mystery. 

The  moment  that  you  have  read  this,  and  re-enclosed 
the  contents  to  me  again,  you  will  take  immediate  steps, 
to  ascertain  the  truth  of  the  conjecture.  I  have  little 
doubt  now: — but  we  must  be  certain,  entirely  certain,  be- 
fore we  act. 

SARAH  RAMSAY. 

(The  following  Letter  was  enclosed.} 

TO   MISS    SARAH  RAMSAY. 

My  dear  young  lady,— A  circumstance  has  occurred 
this  morning,  which  seems  to  justify,  in  no  slight  degree, 


HANDOIPH.  35 

your  strange  suspicion— respecting  a  certain  person.— 
You  know  bow  she  was  admired  and  sought  after:  and 
truly,  I  never  saw  a  more  fascinating  creature.  She  left 
here,  very  abruptly,  about  a  fortnight  since;  and  the 
next  day,  a  gentleman  arrived  at  the  house,  and  was 
shown  directly  to  her  chamber,  at  his  own  request,  by  a 
black  girl  who  happened  to  be  in  the  hall,  when  he  enter- 
ed. But  just  as  he  was  on  the  point  of  opening  the  door 
of  Miss  Howard's  room,  he  seemed  to  recollect  himself; 
for  he  turned,  and  asked  the  stupid  little  creature,  in  a 
threatening  manner,  where  the  lady  of  the  house  was. — 
The  child  was  terrified,  and  ran,  screaming,  down  the 
stairs.  The  gentleman,  whom  nobody  knows  here,  al- 
though it  is  said,  that  he  was  seen  here  about  three  weeks 
before,  behaved  like  a  distracted  man.  He  must  have 
thought  it  a  publick  house;  for,  when  the  family  were 
alarmed,  Mr.  Arrinaut  the  elder  son  of  Madame  Jirri- 
naut,  at  whose  house,  the  lady  chaperone  of  Miss  How-< 
ard,  had  stayed,  was  sent  for; — all  were  silent  as  death 
till  lie  carne — nobody  dared  to  enter.  He  ran  up  stairs, 
and  found  the  stranger  folding  a  note,  just  written; 'and 
another  lying  by  him  on  the  table,  which,  from  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  writing,  Mr.  Arrinaut  does  not  doubt  to 
have  been  Miss  Howard's. 

"What  business  have  you  here,  Sir" — said  Mr.  Arri- 
naut. 

The  stranger,  he  says,  looked  at  him,  for  a  moment, 

as  if  amazed  at  his  rudeness; and  then  quietly  went 

up  to  him  — and  asked  him  where  Mary  was. 

"Mary!— what  Mary? Do  you  mean  Miss  How- 
ard, Sir?"  said  Mr.  Arrinaut. 

«l  do" — answered  the  stranger; — and  then,  as  if  sud- 
denly recollecting  himself,  while  the  tears  stood  in  his 
eyes, — he  added "Gracious  God,  sir 1  am  sad- 
ly afraid  1 1  pray  you,  where  am  I? how  came 

I  here? — what  have  I  done?" 

"Please to  give  me  your  name,  first, sir,"  said  Mr.  Ar- 
rinaut, "and  descend  with  me  to  the  parlour." 

"Edward  Molton,"  was  the  reply. 

"What! the  brother  of  Miss  Howard?" 

"The  same.— -The  brother aye— the  half  brother  of 

Miaa  Howard."  Mutual  apologies  and  explanations  iua 


S6  RANDOLPH. 

mediately  took  place.  The  brother,  it  appeared,  had 
been  led  into  a  strange  mistake.  From  the  similarity 
of  names,  he  had  been  induced  to  believe  that  she  was  in 
a  publick  house;  and,  therefore,  had  came  on  for  the  pur- 
pose of  taking  her  away,  even  from  the  excellent  woman 
who  accompanied  her. 

He  mounted  his  horse  immediately,  after  being  inform- 
ed of  her  return  to  Baltimore,  and  departed  at  full 
speed. 

The  story,  with  many  aggravations,  soon  got  abroad; 
and,  at  last,  came  back  to  our  house,  with  the  addition, 
that  this  enchanting  woman  was  not  named  Howard — and 
— was  not  his  half  sisterl — I  sent  my  brother,  who  is  cru- 
elly  sensible,  on  matters  of  this  sort,  since  the  imposition 
practised  upon  us  last  year,  by  Miss  *  *  *  *  to  trace 
the  story  to  its  author.  Would  you  believe  it! — He 

found  a  gentleman  in  the  suite  of ,  who  had 

seen  this  Mary  Howard  at  court! He  was  not  ac- 
quainted with  her,  or  her  family;  but  was  sure  that  her 
name  was  not  Howard,  when  she  was  presented.  At  the 

's  last  ball,  he  met  her  again;  and  sat  next  to 

her  at  the  supper  table.  She  would  not  know  him. — 
There  was  some  mystery  about  it;  for  her  eyes  betrayed 
a  consciousness  of  having  met  his  before.  She  retired 
early;  coloured,  as  she  passed  him;  then  turned,  haugh- 
tily, toward  him  in  particular,  and  bade  him  good  night. 
This  was  the  last  time  that  she  was  in  company.  He  is  a 
sensible  man;  a  profound  observer  of  human  nature;  and 
has  told  me,  plainly,  that  he  thinks  there  is  somewhat 
suspicious  in  her  deportment — "I  do  not  believe  that  she 
knew  me,"  he  said — "but  lam  sure  that  my  countenance 
troubled  her."  I  am  much  changed  since  she  saw  me. 
I  never  saw  her  but  once;  and,  while  she  has  not  entirely 
forgotten  my  face,  yet,  it  is  probable,  that  she  cannot  re- 
member where  she  has  seen  me.  Thus  I  account  for  her 
perplexity; — no,  her  name  is  not  Howard — nor  is  she  mar- 
ried. Perhaps  she  has  eloped; — and  now,  it  does  ap- 
pear to  me,  that  1  have  heard  something  of  that  sort — 
she  was  very  much  celebrated;  and  came  out,  at  the  last 
Drawing  Room  that  I  attended.  Yes — yes — it  is  so- 
ber name,  I  have  lost;  but  I  have  an  indistinct  recollec- 
tion^ that  there  is  somewhat  wrong  in  her  history.'* 


37 

I  related  this  to  our  charming  friend,  who  was,  of 
course*  much  shocked;  but  she  forbore  all  reproaches  till 
she  had  arrived  at  a  greater  degree  of  certainty.  All  the 
town  was  in  uproar  about  the  affair.  She  was  cruelly 
censured*  and  misrepresented;  yes,,$/ie/—  who,  but  a  few 
days  ago  was  idolized  and  caressed  by  the  whole  city, 
for  having  such  a  "melancholy,  and  magnificent"  crea- 
ture, as  they  called  Miss  Howard,  then,  under  her  guar- 
dianship. In  justification  of  herself,  she  showed  me  the 
letters  which  Miss  Howard  brought;  and  you  know  too, 

that  she  came  in  the  company  of  the  celebrated  Mr. , 

the  member  from .  How  was  it  possible  to  doubt  her 

credentials?  And  why  should  we  doubt  them?  Was  she 
not  beautiful,  accomplished;  and,  at  the  worst,  of  high 
rank  abroad?  And  why  should  we  be  fastidious?  We 
are  unreasonable,  dear,  are  we  not,  to  complain  of  their 

cast  off  gentry?  Heaven  and  earth! — Mrs.  B was  at 

my  elbow.  Another  discovery!  A  handkerchief  has  been 
found  with — what,  of  all  the  letters  of  the  alphabet, 
think  you,  marked  upon  it?  With  no  others,  my  dear 
Miss  Ramsay,  than  H.  W.  O.  Yes:  it  is  a  fact,  I  as- 
sure you.  I  have  seen  them  myself.  They  were  marked 
originally  in  blue  silk,  and  have  been  picked  out;  but, 
so  recently,  that  they  can  be  plainly  traced  by  a  faint  blue 
stain.  You  may  judge  of  our  consternation. 

We  sent  immediately  for  the  paper  in  which  the  ad- 
vertisement appeared;  and,  at  last,  succeeded  in  getting  it 
• — but  not  from  the  office.  The  papers  have  all  been  taken 
off  the  files,  and  there  was  not  a  copy  to  be  had  in  the 
city;  but,  at  length,  we  recollected  an  acquaintance,  who 
was  in  the  habit  of  cutting  out  the  pieces  that  struck  her, 
for  any  reason  whatever,  in  the  papers  of  the  day.  We 
sent  to  her,  and  luckily  obtained  it.  Yes!  the  very  letters! 
Good  heaven!  how  deceived  have  we  been!  All  flashes 
upon  us  now,  so  clearly,  that  we  wonder  at  our  own 
blindness.  The  same  lofty  carriage, — the  same  impas- 
sioned tenderness  of  tone — the  very  colour  of  the  hair 
and  eyes — and  yet,  that  we  should  never  have  suspected 
her!  How  strange!  But  then,  who  would  have  thought 
of  looking  here  for  your  Helen;  that  most  interesting  and 
unfortunate  creature;  that  subject  of  so  much  inquiry  and 


38  RANDOLPH, 

wonder,  throughout  all  America?  Really,  my  dear,  there 
are  things  of  daily  occurrence,  in  common  life,  more  ex- 
travagant and  improbable  than  we  ever  find  in  romances 
and  novels;  just,  I  dare  say,  as  there  are  skies  and  trees, 
which  no  painter  would  dare  to  copy.  Nay,  to  add  to 
our  wonder,  we  are  just  told,  (for  nothit  g  else  is  heard 
of  in  Washington,  now,)  that  Miss  •  Coward  herself,  when 
that  advertisement  appeared,  read  it  aloud,  at  Mrs.  L — 98 
breakfast  table.  It  is  distinctly  recollected;  because  she 
read  it,  in  a  manner  very  unusual  to  her,  en  badinage. — 
"What  a  wonderful  woman  she  is?  Tell  me,  if  you  know, 
where  she  is — and  who?  We  are  dying  to  know  her  his- 
tory; and  I,  for  one,  shall  persist  in  believing  well  of  her, 
in  spite  of  appearances,  until  I  know  that  she  is  unwor- 
thy. 

And  above  all,  I  pray  you,  my  dear  Miss  Ramsay,  not 
to  forget  that  we  are  equally  curious  to  know  who,  and 
what  her  brother  is.  Is  he  named  Molton?  Where  does 
he  live?  Tell  us  all  that  you  know;  for  he  has  excited 
a  strange  interest  here.  Mr.  Arrinaut  says,  that  he  is 
the  most  extraordinary  man,  that  he  ever  met  with; — 
that,  at  first,  he  thought  him  a  lunatick;  but  that,  when 
he  entered  the  parlour,  and  made  his  apology,  with  such 
an  air  of  gentlemanly  self  possession,  pained  and  dis- 
tressed as  he  was,  with  his  awkward  mistake; — and,  par- 
ticularly when  he  mounted  at  the  door  (and,  by  the  way, 
he  says  that  he  never  saw  a  man  sit  a  horse  so  "ro#a%")— 
he,  Mr.  Arrinaut,  was  "awestruck?9 — and  affected,  incon- 
ceivably affected,  by  the  melancholy  lustre  of  his  eyes. 

Ma  cherr  amie  toujours  a  toi.1 

P. 
Washington  City, ,  182 — . 


*RANK  TO  SARAH. 

Your  confidence,  cousin,  has  made  a  man  of  me.  I 
have  read  the  enclosed,  in  consternation  and  dismay.  If 
the  sister  of  Molton  be  really  Helen  — ,  it  is  highly 


RANDOLPH.  39 

probable  that  Molton,  himself,  is  the  wretch,  of  whom  we 
have  been  so  long  in  search.  How  providential^;  is—— 
Can  lie  possibly  elude  us  now?  Can  you  imagine  any  es- 
cape? Struck  by  your  confidence  in  me,  and  ashamed, 
heartily  ashamed,  of  that  affectation,  with  which  you 
charge  me,  I  have  attempted  to  become,  at  one  step, 
what  you  would  have  me  be.  But  perhaps  you  would 
like  a  reason  for  what  I  have  been.  It  is  this— other  men 
are  silent  in  their  humiliation  and  distress;  or  else  they 
complain.  I  never  complain.  Thus  much  of  religion 
have  I— that,  to  whatever  happens,  I  am  resigned.  "What- 
ever is — is  right,"  I  cannot  be  silent,  when,  by  consti- 
tution and  habit,  I  am  believed  to  be  volatile  and  noisy; 
no — whatever  I  might  be  at  a  fitting  opportunity — I 
cannot,  now,  be  silent  and  thoughtful;  because  I  cannot, 
and  will  not,  subject  my  self  to  the  misrepresentation  of 
the  world.  I  loved — Sarah — as  you  know,  with  all  my 
heart  and  soul.  My  object  was  the  happiness- of  the  wo- 
man that  I  loved.  To  promote  that,  I  would  have  sa- 
crificed myself — and  almost  my  hope  of  heaven.  She  dis- 
carded me; — I  use  no  disguise — no  concealment  to  you, 
Sarah;  because  I  would  have  you  know  my  heart  truly, 
and  as  it  is.  She  discarded  me  —cut  me  adrift.  Very 
well — I  did  not  complain!  ...  I  do  not .  .  .  You  knew 
her  .  .  .  You  knew  that  she  loved  me,  or,  at  least,  that  I 
had  reason  to  believe  so.  Perhaps  I  was  mistaken-- 
what! — mistaken; — no — by  heaven,  I  was  not.  She  did 
love  me! — she  would  have  died  for  me.  She—But  no — no 
matter  now.  Very  well.  She  discarded  me.  I  felt  sorry 
for  it;  chiefly,  I  do  believe,  for  her  sake;  not,  that  I  did 
not  feel — aye,  feel  to  the  core  of  my  heart,  as  if  hot  lead 
had  been  poured  down  my  throat;  but,  it  was  her  choice. 
1  never  complain.  I  only  pray  that  it  may  prove  to  have 
been  wise  ...  I  do  sometimes  pray,  Sarah;  and  when  I 
do,  it  is  for  her.  May  she  be  happy — All-righteous  God- 
fill  her  pure  heart  with  comfort  and  consolation! — Make 
her  happy.  May  she — never — never~yes,  I  can  say  even 
that,  with  sincerity  and  fervour,  may  she  never  repent  of 
having  abandoned  me!  May  she  find  a  truer,  nobler  heart: 
some  one  that  lias,  at  least,  all  my  good  qualities,  and 
none  of  my  bad  ones — May  she— - But  no!  That 


40  RANDOLPH. 

is  foolish.  I  merely  desired  to  make  you  understand  'why 
I  w  ou  jjl  not  be  silent  or  thoughtful  —  why  I  affected  a  gaie- 
ty, while  my  very  heart  was  on  fire;*- why,  when  all  is  now 
so  mortally  cold,  here — here,  Sarah,  that  no  green  thing 
shall  ever  sprout  here  again: — it  is,  that  I  may  not  be 
thought  broken  in  heart,  or  bowed  in  spirit.  No! — let  me 
die,  if  it  be  thy  will,  0  my  God — piecemeal.  But  let  not  that 
woman  hear  aught,  or  suspect  aught  of  the  cause,  to  em- 
bitter her  last  moments. No  more! — The 

theme  unmans  me.  I  know  not  when  1  have  written  so 
much,  or  spoken  so  much,  on  this  subject;  but  you  have 
dared  to  look  through  my  panoply — into  my  heart;— and 
beholding  that,  have  shuddered, — and  been  just — never- 
theless. I  shall  not  forget  it.  I  have  a  stubborn  spirit; 
one  that  cannot  sue  for  indulgence,  but  is  thankful  for 
justice;  and,  while  it  lives  and  breathes,  will  have  it — 
and  will  not  brook  injustice. 

I  have  been  unable  to  pursue  your  inquiry,  as  I  wish- 
ed. The  weather  has  been  exceedingly  unfavourable, 
and  all  that  I  can  hear  is,  that  Molton  and  his  half  sister 
are  occupying  the  old  mansion  at — on  the  Hill;— that  they 
have  still  the  same  English  servant,  (but  his  livery  is 
changed;) — and  have  given  out  that  they  shall  neither 
give  nor  receive  visits  during  the  winter.  Something  is 
said  about  the  death  of  a  relation,  as  an  excuse  for  this; 
and  the  sister  has  appeared  once  in  black.  It  has  been 
supposed,  by  some,  that  this  solitary,  and  secluded  life, 
has  been  adopted  for  purposes  of  economy.  But  I 
have  good  reason  to  know  better; — my  means  of  infor- 
mation ma>  be  depended  upon:— they  are  confidential  and 
not  to  he  betrayed,  but  they  are  sufficient  to  justify  me  in 
saying,  that  economy  is  the  least  of  their  motives,  for  this 
abrupt  abandonment  of  society. 

I  have  heard  some  whispering  to-day,  relative  to  her 
deportment  at  head  quarters.  The  story  has  gained  prodi- 
giously, and  assails  me  now  at  every  corner,  in  a  multitude 
of  romantick  and  wonderful  shapes.  You  shall  be  kept 
informed  of  all.  John  is  bewitched,  I  believe.  He  has  for- 
given Molton  the  trick;  for,  indeed  it  deserves  no- better 
name,  in  getting  the  house?  and  has  actually  been  closet- 
ed with  him  for  some  hours,  and  refuses  to  communicate 
with  me. 


RANDOLPH*  4 1 


Upon  my  word! — three  whole  pages! — the  longest  let- 
ter that  ever  I  wrote  in  my  life. 

Yours,  my  dear  cousin, 

FRANK* 

/•}«;  ,;.:,?«Vi  T^» 

'.'•  •!    .-'tfi  *!»''•  .*/»»'•  — -I' 

SAME   TO   SAME. 

The  plot  thickens  upon  us.  John  has  just  left  me,  and 
I  must  write  you  by  this  post.  We  have  had  the  strang- 
est conversation  in  the  world.  He  is  in  love  with  Juliet! — 
yes,  truly,  respectfully  and  tenderly.  I  am  bound  to 
believe  him;  he  has  come  to  me  like  a  man,  and  told  me 
so,  I  verily  believe,  the  first  moment  that  he  knew  it  him- 
self. I  suspected  Jane,  for  a  while;  but  then,  f  thought 
that  he  had  too  much  chivalry,  in  his  disposition,  for  her. 
Are  we  alike,  cousin?  People  say  that  we  are;  but  it  ap- 
pears to  me  that  we  are  not.  And  who  shall  judge?  Stran- 
gers will  see  likenesses,  a  family  likeness,  between  persons 
at  first  sight,  who,  to  them  that  know  both  intimately,  are 
totally  unlike.  May  it  not  be  so  in  the  mind  and  character? 
1  think  that  John  has  more  real  extravagance  than  I,  and 
less  that  is  artificial— more  appearance  at?d  less  reality, 
on  many  subjects;  and  I  would  have  added,  but  for  thai 
last  sentence,  which,  on  looking  at  it  again,  has  utterly 
discomfited  me! — that  I  had  more  modesty! 

Mr.  Arrinaut  has  been  here,  to  call  Molton  to  ac- 
count. I  wish  you  could  hear  John  describe  the  meeting. 
It  almost  brought  tears  into  my  eyes.  He  was  Motion's 
friend! — yes— -can  any  thing  under  God's  heaven,  amaze 
you,  now,  Sarah?— After  some  conversation,  in  which  Mr. 
Arrinaut  lost  all  command  of  himself,  while  Molton 
maintained  the  most  invincible  composure,  the  former 
struck  the  latter.  John  immediately  interfered — but  what 
did  Molton?  He  smiled.  "Leave  the  room,  my  friend,'* 
said  he,  to  my  brother;  "leave  me  alone,  with  this  mad- 
man:— 1  shall  find  a  way  to  tame  him."  My  brother 
went  out — but  stood  at  the  door.  A  singular  altercation 
E 


4£  KANDOLPH. 

took  place: — on  one  side  a  great  deal  of  loud  violence;— 
on  the  other,  the  deep  inward  tranquillity  of  a  hero— can 
he  be  a  coward.  Sarah? — hut  hear  me  through.  All  this 
appeared  but  to  incense  Mr.  Arrinautthe  more.  He  had  giv- 
en a  blow — it  had  been  endured — not  a  muscle  stirred  in 
defence;  his  lip  only  writhed  and  quivered,  and  his 
haughty  blue  eyes  lighted  up  with  a  preternatural 
brightness — as  if  he  had  said — boy,  you  are  no  match  for 
me,  even  in  physical  strength.  Nay,  Mr.  Arrinaut  had 
called  him  a  coward,  and  a  scoundrel.  My  brother  heard 
it — his  blood  boiled,  and  he  looked  to  see  the  glitter  of 
some  weapon.  But  no—there  was  only  the  glitter  of 
the  eye; — yet  that  was  deadly.  Molton  smiled — and  it 
was  then,  that  my  brother  shut  the  door.  The  most 
provoking,  insolent  language  was  continued  on  the  part 
of  Mr.  A.  and  endured  by  Molton,  until  my  brother  lost 
pall  atience; — at  this  moment,  just  as  he  was  on  the 
point,  (you  know  his  impetuosity;  and  a  legion  of  devils, 
at  such  a  moment,  would  not  frighten  him) — of  bursting 
open  the  door,  cursing  Molton  to  his  head  for  a  poltron, 
and  perhaps  throwing  Mr.  A.  out  of  the  window — he 
heard  the  names  of  Maria  Howard,  and  Helen— somebody 
— (the  last  name  he  did  not  hear,)  pronounced;  and,  the 
next  moment,  a  loud  shriek,  and  the  sound  of  one 
dashed  against  the  door  where  he  stood.  ...  He  retreat- 
ed, stunned,  as  it  opened  in  his  face,  and  saw  a  man  stag- 
ger against  the  wall — his  cravat  stained  and  torn,  and 
the  blood  gushing  out  of  his  mouth. 

Molton  followed; — his  hands  all  red — quivering 
like  a  young  lion  over  his  prey;  and  was  only  prevented, 
from  completing  his  work  of  death,  by  the  interference  of 
my  brother. 

But  how  could  he  do  this?  you  will  ask. — So  I  asked 
John,  but  he  could  not  answer  me.  Brother,  said  he — I 
would  sooner  encounter — anybody — anything — than  Ed- 
ward Molton,  at  such  a  moment.  There  was  nothing 
human  in  his  countenance.  I  had  thought  him  feeble  and 
sickly;  but  his  arms  were  now  bare — how,  I  know  not— 
he  wras  in  his  dressing  gown  when  I  left  him;  and  his 
muscles  looked  as  if  they  would  burst  through  the  skin. 
You  know  the  size  of  Mr.  A.  yet  he  was  dashed  to  the 


KANDOLPH.  43 

tarth,  by  Molton,  like  an  infant — senseless — blinded — 
and  red  with  his  own  blood,  as  if  a  thunderbolt  had 
struck  him.  It  was  half  an  hour,  before  he  recovered — 
and,  when  he  did,  the  first  object  that  his  dim  eyes  en- 
countered, was  the  face  of  Molton,  who  stood  over  him, 
with  his  brow  gathered,  and  arms  folded,  so  full  of  mor- 
tal determination,  that  my  brother  expected  him  to  fast- 
en upon  his  victim's  throat,  at  the  first  respiration.  Verily, 
thought  my  brother,  that  man  hath  a  devil. 

The  poor  fellow  shut  his  eyes  again,  with  a  faint 
groan — shivered,  and  turned  away  his  face. 

At  this  moment,  Miss  Howard  entered  the  room; — but, 
so  worn  and  wasted,  that  her  own  brother  did  not  seem  to 

know  her She  threw  herself  upon  his  bosom, 

and  sobbed  aloud.  The  sound  of  her  voice  appeared  to 
affect  him.  His  eyes  lost  their  intentness  of  expression — 
his  brow  grew  smoother;— he  heaved  a  deep — deep  sigh; 
his  eye-lids  quivered — his  lips  trembled,  and  he  kissed  her, 
murmuring  in  her  ear,  some  low  sounds  of  endearment, 
in  a  broken  voice. 

"What  did  he,  my  brother':  -what  has  he  done  to  thee?" 

said  she.  "Helen ha! Mary;  — forgive  me,  dear," 

said  Molton,  as  if  recollecting  i^-ne  If  instantly — "what 
done  to  me? — he  profaned  thy  brother  with  a  blow; — I 
bore  it — he  cursed  him — I  bore  that — he  called  him 
coward— I  bore  that — but  then,  poor  young  man — he  nam- 
ed thee,  love,  irreverently,  and—and — there  he  lies." 

His  voice  trembled,  as  he  said  this: — and  John  said 
that  his  countenance  softened  to  a  melancholy,  beautiful 
gentleness,  kinder  than  humanity — far  kinder — and  he 
added,  "Mary,  his  punishment  is  with  thee  now.  What 
shall  be  done  to  him?" 

"Forgive  him,"  she  answered,  putting  her  hand  through 
his  rich  hair,  and  pulling  his  forehead  to  her  lips — "for- 
give him,  and  let  him  go  in  peace." 

"Forgive  him! — never! — but  he  may  go  in  peace." 

"O,  but  thou  wilt  forgive  him,  dear" said  she; — 

"who  could  have  resisted  her?"  said  John. 

"No!"  was  the  reply — "No!  not  if  it  were  my  own  fa- 
ther; he  has  dishonoured  thee,  Hel — Mary." 

She  lifted  herself  up — raised  her  head  from  his  bosom; 


44  RANDOLPH* 

looked  him  full  in  the  face.  "Brother — there  is  a  prom- 
ise—is it  forgotten?  I  hoped  never  to  claim  it.  I  de- 
mand it  now." 

"Beware" — said  he,  solemnly. 

"No,  Brother.  Now  is  thy  time  of  trial.  Hast  thou 
a  great  heart?  Prove  it.  Go  to  the  sick  man — give  him 
thy  hand — say  that  thou  forgi  vest  him." 

"I  thought  his  spirit  would  rend  his  chest,"  said  John. 
He  stopped.  "Sister,  you  know  not  what  you  demand  of 
me,"  he  said — drew  one  long  breath,  that  you  might 
have  heard  in  the  next  room — and  obeyed; — obeyed  too, 

so  magnificently!     O,  it  wras  godlike! — he  gave 

Mr.  A.  his  hand — Nay,  his  eyes  were  wet;  for  his  heart 
once  touched,  would  have  way. 

"I  endured  much  from  you,  Sir,"  he  said,  in  a  low 
.voice;  "and  I  could  have  endured  anything — anything 
but  that.  Sleep  quietly;  you  shall  be  taken  care  of,  as 
my  own  brother;  and,  when  you  are  well  enough,  I  will 
convince  you,  that  you  deserved  nothing  less  than  death 
— death,  here  and  hereafter,  for  your  blasphemy — but 
you  are  too  ill  to  converse." 

Thus  ended  the  affair.  It  occurred  yesterday  morn- 
ing; and  to-day  Mr.  A.  set  off  for  his  farm  in  Virginia; 
and  John  says,  that,  when  they  parted,  he  and  Molton, 
they  embraced;  and  Mr.  A.  said — "Sir,  you  have  forgiv- 
en me,  hut  I  shall  never  forgive  myself.  Ididdeseme 
death:  and  any  man  that  ever  says  to  me,  of  that  woman, 
what  I  said  to  you,  shall  receive 'death  at  my  own  hands, 
or  I  will  receive  it  at  his." 

There,  cousin,  I  have  related  the  whole,  as  nearly  as 
I  could,  in  John's  own  words;  and,  allowing  all  that  I 
think  right,  for  his  extravagance,  I  cannot  but  add,  that 
there  has  been  something  sublime  in  the  carriage  of  Mol- 
ton, on  this  occasion.  What  think  you?  .  .  .  .  Was 
it  not,  as  John  calls  it,  regal?  ....  He  cut  me  to 
the  heart  in  describing  it.  He  cannot  be  a  coward! — no! 
we  are  wrong. 

THANK, 


BANUOLPH.  45 

*fe. 

ANSWER. 

No,  I  am  not  at  all  staggered,  Frank.  My  opinion  is 
unchanged.  The  only  difference  that  I  know  is,  that,  at 
present,  I  believe  Molton  a  more  dangerous  man  than  ev- 
er, because  less  feeble  and  effeminate.  I  have  received 
both  of  your  letters  at  once;  and  have  read  them  with  an  ea- 
gerness that  has  left  nay  heart  palpitating  so,  that  I  can 
scarcely  see  what  I  am  about.  But  let  me  answer 
them  in  the  best  way  that  I  can. 

You  have  a  noble  heart,  Frank;  but,  like  your  bro- 
ther, you  are  disingenuous;  not,  to  be  sure,  in  the  same 
way,  but  after  a  fashion  of  your  own,  that  is  almost  as 
bad.  However,  as  you  have  complimented  my  sagacity 
so  handsomely,  by  this  last  reformation  of  yours,  and  be- 
come so  suddenly,  what  I  said  you  were,  at  heart,  a  man, 
I  have  some  encouragement  to  proceed.  And  I  shall 
proceed,  cousin,  unamiable  as  it  is  in  a  woman,  to  talk 
so  authoritatively;  and  unwilling,  as  all  men  are,  to  see 
their  dictatorship  usurped — their  prerogative  encroach- 
ed upon.  Once  for  all,  I  would  have  you  understand, 
that  I  respect  you,  now — and  that  I  would  ratherconia.it 
a  fault,  by  admonishing  you  too  seriously,  than  that  you 
should  err  for  the  want  of  that  admonition. 

You  speak  of  religion.  I  am  glad  of  it;  but  I  do  not 
like  the  manner  in  which  you  speak  of  it.  There  is 
somewhat  of  your  habitual  levity  in  that  part  of  your 
letter.  Religion,  my  dear  cousin,  is  not  a  thing  to  be 
lightly  talked  about;  nor  is  that  proud  submission,  which 
-disdains  to  repine,  under  any  calamitous  dispensation  ot 
Providence;  any  bereavement;  or  any  humiliation,  at  all 
worthy  of  the  name  that  you  have  given  it.  It  may  be 
stoicism — it  may  be  pagan  greatness;  but  it  is  not  resig- 
nation. Resignation  is  meek  and  lowly; — submissive 
and  silent.  No,  Frank  if  you  have  any  respect  for 
me,  I  pray  you  to  think  more  seriously,  when  you  men- 
tion aught  of  religious  experience  to  me.  I  do  not  inter- 
dict the  subject;  by  no  means — 1  would"  rather  invite 
your  attention  to  it;  for  I  know  of  no  man,  who  would  be 
a  nobler  ornament  to  any  society  of  sincere  believers  than 
you  would  be,  were  you  vitally'affected.  You  know  that  I 


46  RANDOLPH. 

care  little  for  forms  or  ceremonies;  but  I  look  to  hear  men, 
and  gentlemen,  certainly,  whether  they  he  professing 
Christians  or  not,  speak  of  religion  with  less  flippancy, 
than  you  sometimes  do. 

And  now,  while  I  think  of  it,  I  beg  the  favour  of  you, 
to  get  a  letter  of  your  brother,  which  I  wrote  to  him  some 
weeks  since,  in  which,  in  the  distraction  of  my  thought, 
(and  wickedness  of  my  heart — I  may  as  well  own  it  at 
once) — I  am  sure  that  I  recommended  the  spilling  of 
blood.  Heaven  forgive  me!  I  have  bitterly  repented 
since,  and  I  pray  you  so  to  inform  your  brother;  telling 
him,  at  the  same  time,  of  my  shame  and  contrition — 
and  counselling  him  to  forbear,  if  he  cannot  quite  forgive 
the  wretch.  Nay — I  have  too  much  of  natural  infirmity 
about  me  yet,  dear  cousin,  to  trust  myself  with  his  name. 
In  spite  of  my  sorrow  for  what  is  past, — the  thought  of 
him  sets  every  vein  in  my |>ody  tingling.  Yet — what  an 
escape  I  have  had!  Can  I  ever  be  sufficiently  gratetful 
for  it — a  duel  might  have  followed  from  my  rashness. 

Yes,  you  are  like  your  brother;  worse  in  some  points 
— better  in  others.  And  now,  while  it  occurs  to  me, 
there  is  one  point,  in  which  I  would  recommend  a  little 
discipline.  You  are  too  passionately  fond  of  poetry; — 
lie  of  musick.  By  the  way,  that  puts  me  in  mind  of  our 
quarrel  last  summer.  Have  you  forgotten  what  I  told 
you  of  Byron's  plagiarism.  Do  you  remember  what  I 
showed  you  in  Wordsworth,  and  Mrs.  RadclifT,  that  he  had 
stolen? — and  when  you  quoted  something  of  his,  in  prose, 
respecting  "the  mirror,"  which  is  shivered — by  some- 
thing or  other — in  every  piece  of  which,  Memory,  while 
looking  down  upon  it,  beholds  the  beloved  image 
multiplied.  I  told  you  then,  you  know,  that  1  had  seen 
it  somewhere,  I  was  sure,  notwithstanding  his  lordship's 
self  complacency,  where  it  is  introduced — or  the  childish 
praise  that  I  have  seen  lavished  upon  it.  Well,  some 
days  since  I  met  with  it  again;  and  copied  it  for  you. — 
It  is  in  the  twenty -third  letter  of  the  NEW  HELOI^E — and 
reads  "Qu'on  brise  ce  fidele  miroir  de  Julie,  sa 
pure  image  tie  cessera  de  briller  jusques  la  dernier  frag 
ment,"  &c. 

Are  you  surprised  at  my  avowing,  that  I  have  read 
this  work  of  the  "Divine  Rousseau/'  as  he  has  been  call- 


RANDOLPH.  47 

ed?— -"The  apostle  of  affliction?"  I  hope  that  you  are 
not.  I  read  it  deliberately,  knowing  its  character.— 
And  the  result  is  not,  what  he  so  pleasantly  predict- 
ed in  his  preface.  I  do  not  believe  that  I  am  yet,  "unt 
Jille  perdue!"  Pardon  my  French.  You  know  that  I  am 
not  very  ostentatious  of  such  things.  But,  on  this  occa- 
sion I  use  it,  as  merely  introductory  to  my  opinion, 
which  is  deliberately  and  temperately  formed, — that  Jean 
Jacques  Rousseau,  is  a  fool.  That  is  coarse  language, 
Frank;  but  I  do  not  shrink  from  discussion.  The  man's 
vanity  has  turned  his  head.  There  is  one  letter  alone> 
in  which  his  little  knowledge  of  human  nature,  is  made  so 
shockingly  evident,  that  we  should  never  forgive  it,  in  an 
ordinary  writer.  After  Julia  has  resisted  what,  even  to 
me,  appears  to  have  been  much  trial,  and, perhaps,  temp- 
tation— when  all  is  passed — she  deliberately  invites  her 
lover  to  her  room.  O,  it  is  base  and  contemptible.  No 
woman  could  have  done  it.  A  wanton  would  not.  Nay, 
Julia  herself,  Rousseau's  Julia,  never  would  have  done  it. 
It  was  impossible.  She  resists  when  tempted; — but  un- 
tempted — yields.  Thus  much  for  Rousseau.  He  is  not 
merely  a  distempered  madman.  He  is  a  fool.  His  an- 
gels are  gross  and  sensual;  he But  let  us  leave  him— 

and  go,  as  fast  as  possible,  to  what  more  deeply  af- 
fects ourselves.  This  will  be  a  long  letter,  cousin;  I  fore- 
see that;  but,  be  patient — what  you  get  extra  now,  will 
leave  you  the  less  to  receive  hereafter. 

You  are  under  a  melancholy  misapprehension  respecting 
the  woman  of  your  love.  You  left  her  no  choice,  but 
that  of  forgiving  you,  when  you  appeared  careless  of  her 
opinion;  and  did  not  seek  to  soothe  or  conciliate  her— 
and,  consequently,  of  forgiving  you  at  the  expense  of  your 
esteem  and  respect:~or,  of  bidding  you  farewell.  I  am  not 
at  liberty  to  say  more  upon  the  subject.  But  of  one  thing  I 
can  venture  to  assure  you.  She  loved  you.  And  such  wo- 
men do  not  easily  forget  their  love.  Whether  she  ever  felt 
aught  of  that  passion  before,  you,  perhaps,  know  better 
than  i  do;  but  1  believe  that  she  never  did.  If  so,  she  will 
never  forget  you.  1  have  heard  a  good  deal  of  your  con- 
duct of  late;  you  are  wrong — I  know  your  pride — it  is  un- 
worthy of  you;  and,  surely,  you  were  never  fitted  to  make 


48  RASTDOXPH. 

so  gentle  and  patient  a  creature  as  she  is,  happy,  if  you 
can  so  soon  wear  the  semblance  and  bearing  of  a  stern 
man.  I  know  it  all,  Frank — you  have  met  and  passed  her, 
even  her,  whom  you  so  love  yet,  with  a  most  unkind  in- 
difference. I  know  your  reasons;  some  little  civilities 
have  been  omitted  by  others;  but  are  they  a  reason  why 
you  should  wound  her,  so  unfeelingly,  even  if  she  be  with 
them.  Frank,  you  have  a  noble  heart;  everybody  respects 
and  admires  you,  for  your  bearing  under  this  humiliation; 
and  your  magnanimity  in  confessing  the  fact,  that  she  has 
abandoned  and  rejected  you,  looks  well  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world.  But  search  your  own  heart — what  was  your  true 
motive?  Was  there  no  selfishness,  no  affectation  of  doing 
what  was  difficult — no  disdain  of  the  world's  opinion  in  it? 

Yes,  Frank,  I  do  believe  you.  I  have  no  doubt  that 
her  happiness  has  been  your  chief  aim;  that  you  pray  for 
it,  now,  devoutly.  Let  it  continue  to  be  so.  Be  a  brother 
to  her;  watch  over,  pray  for,  guard  her,  while  you  have 
life  in  you.  That  you  can  do,  and  the  time  may  come, 
when  she  will  want  such  a  brother.  Nay,  it  will  come. 
In  the  mean  time,  when  you  meet  her,  if  you  ever  do,  be 
gentle  and  kind  in  your  deportment;  let  her  not  suppose 
that  your  tenderness  and  respect  have  turned  to  hostili- 
ty, indifference,  or  contempt.  No — I  know  you  well, 
Frank;  and  I  know  that,  when  that  face  of  yours  looks 
sternest,  there  is  a  yielding  and  tender  spirit  at  the  heart, 
who  would  weep,  were  it  gently  bidden  to,  by  the  one  it 
loved. 

Your  duties  are  not,  cannot  be  discharged,  toward  that 
woman,  while  it  is  possible  for  you  to  be  of  any  use  to  her, 
in  any  way.  Woman  is  naturally  helpless  and  depend- 
ant; but  she  is  especially  so.  Remember  how  she  has  loved 
you— your  meetings — the  bridge — the  stump— the  hill  top 
— the  rock— all  of  which  I  remember,  from  hearing  only 
faint  allusions  to  them.  Judge  you,  then,  how  her  heart 
must  thrill  yet,  when  they  are  thought  of. 

The  secluded  life  of  Molton,  of  which  you  speak,  is 
strictly  in  character.  The  catastrophe  is  approaching; 
he  knows  it.  We  shall  find  him  prepared.  He  will  re- 
ceive us  at  last,  like  the  coiled  serpent.  Wo  to  the 
loot  that  would  first  crush  him.  Be  it  my  fate; — 1  shall 


RANDOLPH.  49 

not  shrink  from  it.  The  proof  accumulates — the  scene 
darkens — and  we  shall  burst  upon  him,  when  he  least 
expects  it,  with Nay,  I  must  not  babble  at  this  rate. 

1  am  now  satisfied  of  one  thing — and  that  is,  of  the  iden- 
tity of  Mary  Ho  word  with  Helen; — of  course,  then,  she  is 
notliis  half  sister.  But  what  is  she?  His  mistress?  For  the 
honour  of  human  nature,  1  hope  not.  O — if  I  might  tell 
you  all — but  i  cannot.  Her  family — her  history — her 
name,  and  sorrows — they  would  bring  tears  into  your  eyes, 
but  to  hear  the  simplest  relation  of  them.  Can  it  be,  that 
he  was  her  betrayer?  O  righteous  Heaven!  when  shall 

his  course  be  arrested?     When no,  no — in  thine  own 

good  time — oh,  our  Father,  wilt  thou  withhold  thy  pesti- 
lence, and  turn  back  the  destroyer! 

The  whole  of  the  interview,  which  you  have  so  vividly 
described,  is  of  a  nature  rather  to  astonisli  than  to  con- 
vince. It  is  possible  that  Molton  may  not  be  a  dastard;  but 
still  it  is  equally  possible  that  he  is.  The  most  pusillani- 
mous animal  will  guard  its  young;  and  may  not  the  coward, 
his  mate?  At  any  rate,it  is,  if  not  a  sublime  moderation 
—  -sublime  acting;  and  that,  you  know,  I  should  look  for, 
from  him.  Nay,  such  things  are  unnatural.  They  may 
he  in  nature,  to  be  sure,  but  that  does  not  make  them 
natural. 

Farewell 

r-*,  6ARAH  RAMSAY. 


FRANK  TO  SARAH  RAMSAY. 

My  excellent  Cousin, 

How  thankful  I  am,  for  your  sincerity  and  plainness, 
I  will  riot  attempt  to  say,  just  now;  but,  the  best  proof  that 
I  can  possibly  give  you,  of  my  sincerity,  will  be  by  my 
conduct. 

But  let  me  answer  your  letter  in  detail;  and  the  first 
thing  that  strikes  me.  is,  (a  rare  fault  in  you,)  a  remark 
that  is  quite  unintelligible.  What  do  you  mean  by  this — 
"Such  things  are  unnatural.  They  may  be  in  nature,  to 
be  sure,  but  that  does  not  make  them  natural." 


50  RANDOLPH. 

Jj 

I  hope  that  you  are  not  getting  fond  of  paradox;  but  real- 
ly, that  looks  not  a  little  like  it.  Pray,  is  not  that  natural, 
of  course,  which  nature  produces?  Don't  forget  to  an- 
swer me. 

1  hope,  my  good  cousin,  that,  hereafter,  I.  shall  ap- 
proach holy  things  more  reverently;  I  would  say,  less 
"flippantly,"  did  it  not  look  like  resentment,  to  retort, 
even  in  a  quotation,  a  word  so  emphatically  used;  and,  I 
beg  of  you,  hereafter,  to  continue  the  same  friendly  manner 
with  me,  when  I  approach  them  lightly;  and  rebuke  me, 
as  you  have  now.  I  shall  he  grateful  for  it;  and,  in  time, 
may  be  nearer  what  you  desire;  at  present,  I  do  not  at- 
tempt much;  for  another  of  your  maxims  is  ringing  in  my 
ears;  a  maxim,'  the  truth  of  which  is  confirmed  by  every 
day's  experience;  that  is — that  they,  who  attempt  most, 
particularly  in  the  way  of  reformation,  often  effect  least. 
They  think  the  work  too  easy.. .aim  at  too  much.. .are 
easily  discouraged,  and  become  worse  than  i$yer.  1  have 
found  it  so. 

I  saw  John  about  the  letter,  which  you  so  jjtnent  hav- 
ing written.  He  won't  part  with  it;  but,  ratMirig  some- 
what of  my  levity,  (for,  to  all  the  world  but  you,  Sarah, 
I  am  still  the  same  frivolous,  noisy  blockhead,  without 
heai*t  or  bitterness,) — he  has  endorsed  your  recantation 
upon  the  back.  Nay,  more — he  has  repeated  the  lesson  to 
Molton;  who  with  his  own  Imnd,  wrote  as  much  upon 
the  back  of  your  insulting  note  to  him...adding  a  cold 
compliment,  at  the  same  time,  to  your  consistency.  Cou- 
sin, were  you  right  in  sending  that  note?  was  it  prudent? 
was  it  like  a  Christian?  You  see  that  1  have  caught  your 
own  manner.  And  are  you  not  a  little  too  inveterate 
against  him,  wicked  and  vile  as  he  undoubtedly  is? — 
Nay,  is  not  your  asperity,  your  prejudice  so  great,  that 
they  blind  you  to  some  fine  virtue  in  his  character? 
You  know  that  you  are  violent,  and  decided  in  your  tem- 
per: and  perhaps — perhaps,  cousin,  you  have  been  pre- 
cipitate in  your  opinions  respecting  him— some  others, 
1  mean,  than  those  which  relate  to  his  personal  courage. 
I  only  mention  the  thing.  You  will  meditate  for  your- 
self; and  determine,  I  am  sure,  when  you  do  determine, 
generously. 


RANDOLPH.  $1 

We  will  not  dispute  any  more  about  poetry.  ,1  have 
been  extravagant,  I  admit;  but  you  perceive  that  I  do  not 
suffer  any  of  that  drunken  exhilaration  of  the s  heart, 
which  unfits  a  man  for  sober  and  substantial  enjoyment. 
Poetry  is  to  me,  no  longer,  a  madness;  it  is  only  a  rid 
and  beautiful  halo,  with  which,  when  I  please,  I  can  in- 
vest what  I  will;  and  straightway,  for  my  own  entertain- 
ment, hear  musick,  and  smell  incense,  and  see  moonlighted 
drapery,  and  feel  the  touch  of,,soft  lips,  awhile,  all  about 
me; — having  all  my  senses  illuminated,  hallowed,  and 
purified,  with  vision,  and  lustre,  and  odour — without 
sensuality  too. 

That  is  a  bold  decision.  But  I  cannot  help  agreeing 
with  you.  The  gentle  and  sweet  Julia,  with  all  hei 
frailty,  wouljl  never  have  been  so  desperate  .  . .  but  I  an, 
amazed  to  hear  you  speak  upon  such  a  subject.  How 
dare  you?...but  no,  there  is  no  daring  in  it.  The  impu- 
rity must  be  in  the  mind.  There  can  be  no  affinity,  to  be 
feared,  between  the  pure  in  heart,  and  the  pestilent  va- 
pour thaWssues  from  the  alernbick  of  Rousseau.  It 
would,'  it  mbst  pass  over  the  untainted  and  unsullied, 
like  foul  breath  over  christal. 

Still,  my  dear  Sarah,  I  do  not  believe  that  it  would  be 
wise,  in  the  present  fashion  of  the  world,  for  you  to  ac- 
knowledge that  you  had  read  LA  NOTTVEIXE  HELOISE. 
Not  that  1  would  have  you  deny  it;  but  it  would  be  more  pru- 
dent, I  think,  not  to  own  it  unnecessarily.  By  some,  you 
are  already  thought  a  prude.  They  would  rejoice  to  know 
that  you  had  read  and  criticised  that  work,  of  all  others. 
And  men,  my  dear,  whe  might  not  have  wisdom  enough 
to  understand  you;  or  magnanimity,  or  charity  enough  to 
allow  your  true  motive,  might  easily  insinuate  some  un- 
kirid  thing;  and  unkind  insinuations,  however  gently 
breathed  at  first,  against  a  woman,  soon  become  mali- 
cious and  deadly.  Few  of  us  are  so  insignificant,  as  not 
to  be  capable  of  making  any  woman  uneasy,  for  a  timej 
and  most  of  us  rejoice  in  an  opportunity. 

Sarah!  I  have  read  again,  and  again,  what  you  have  said 
of — of — no!  I  cannot  write  her  name.  It  is  too  painful. 
I  sometimes  find  myself,  unconsciously,  weaving  the  ini- 
tials only  together;  and  1  awake,  as  from  a -trance,  when 


92 

the  spell  is  completed,  with  a  most  distressing  tightness 
at  the  heart,  and  my  veins,  about  the  forehead,  throbbing 
with  a  painful  heat  and  hurry — —so! — never  mind  the 
name.  I  am  wrong.  1  confess  my  fault.  I  will  be  kind  to 
her,  though  they  have  been  most  unkind  to  me;  for  the 
memory  of  the  past  is  here  yet— the  urn  is  shattered — 
true; — but  the  "scent  of  the  roses  will  hang  round  it  still.'* 
Where,  in  the  name  of  heaven,  did  you  learn  to  touch,  as 
you  have,  upon  every  successive  spot,  that  had  life  in  it, 

about  this  heart  of  mine?     O,  Sarah! — "that  bridge the 

rock — the  wood — the  hill!" — you  know  not  what  you 
have  said!  You  have  profaned;  yes,  you — you.' — -the  holi- 
est and  greenest  spot  of  all  the  wilderness,  that  she  and  I 
have  ever  met  together  in.  There,  went  we  together;  sat 
together;  leaning  against  the  same  tree,  together;  tasting, 
together,  of  the  same  spring;  united  in  heart  and  spirit; 
or,  as  your  favourite  says — (It  is  wicked  to  quote  poetry 
at  such  a  moment — I  confess;  but,  did  you  never  laugh 
out,  to  keep  yourself  from  crying?) 

"Congiunti  eran  gl'  alberghi; 
"Ma  piu  congiunti  i  cori: 
"Conforme  era  1'  etate; 
"Ma'l  pensier  piu  conforme." 

But  I  must  quit  the  theme;  it  is  too  oppressive  for  me — 
another  word,  and  my  heart  would  run  over. 

When  you  can,  I  pray  you,  let  me  know  all  that  is 
proper  and  fair  for  you  to  communicate,  respecting 
Helen.  I  begin  to  feel  a  strange  interest  about  her.  Am  I 
right?  Is  there  not  a  peculiar  appetite  for  excitement,  in 
the  deserted  heart?  It  appears  to  me,  that  I  covet  some- 
thing, I  know  not  what;  but  something,  that  I  cannot  do 
without,  to  occupy  me  inwardly,  with  that  sweet  deliri- 
um which — • — bless  me,  I  am  getting  back  to  the  old 
story  again.  Yet,  one  word  I  must  put  in,  even  upon 
the  prohibited  theme — it  is  this:  I  may  burn  incense 
to  others— but  it  must  be  at  other  shrines,  in  other  tem- 
ples. She  who  trod  mine,  in  'her  nakedness  and  beauty, 
hath  departed — and  no  other  shall  ever  stand  where  she 
stood.  I  owe  that  to  her — that.1 — and  it  shall  be  paid. 


fcANDOl-FH.  53 

Jtfais,  apres  tout— ma  cousine — II  valait  mieujc,  que  dit  le 
"fou"  Rousseau — II  valait  mieux  nejamais  gouter  lafclicitc, 
que  la  gor&ter,  et  la  perdre! 


Mieu • 


ANSWER. 

Est-ce  possible! — French  and  Italian  in  the  same  letter! 
at  such  a  moment  too,  and  from,  such  a  man! — Frank,  I 
know  not  who  is  most  to  blame  for  it,  you  or  I.  I  began, 
I  helieve;  and  you,  I  hope,  have  ended  it;  for,  I  confess,  that 
you  have  made  me  heartily  ashamed  of  it.  How  natur- 
ally we  fall  into  such  ridiculous  pedantry.  Now,  that 
French  sentence  of  yours,  for  example- — why  was  it  intro- 
duced? It  certainly  is  not  what  you  think,  unless,  in- 
deed, you  have  amazingly  changed  since  last  June;  for, 
on  the  third  of  that  month,  you  say,  "I  am  happier,  even 
now,  with  the  conviction  of  having  been  beloved  by  that 
woman,  than  I  should  be,  in  the  possession  of  any  other." 
That  sentiment  came  from  your  heart.  But  this,  it  came 
only  from  your  pen. 

The  lines  from  Tasso,  are  not  worth  repeating.  I  see 
no  particular  merit  in  them.  They  are  often  quoted;  and 
I  am  quite  sure  by  Rousseau  himself;  and,  if  I  recollect 
right,  he  accompanies  them  with  a  most  liberal"  transla- 
tion, indeed.  No,  no,  cousin;  let  its  be  superior  to  this  kind 
of  childish  pedantry.  If  we  cannot  talk  in  English,  let 
us,  at  least,  quote  aptly;  and  on  befitting  occasions.  I 
have  seen  writers,  and  you  can  recall  some  at  this  mo- 
ment, over  whose  pages  we  have  laughed — spitefully 
enough,  too,  at  times — who,  evidently,  kept  a  common 
pi  ace  book?  for  scraps  of  stuff,  in  French,  and  Italian,  and 
Spanish;  and,  when  they  wanted  a  quotation,  turned  to 
that,  culled  one,  no  matter  what,  so  it  was  in  a  foreign 
language,  and  then  fitted  the  incident  or  sentiment  to 
the  quotation.  Nothing  is  easier.  The  difficult',  lies, 
when  one  is  talking  or  writing,  naturally,  to  remember  an 
apt  illustration,  to  fit  the  subject — not  in  fitting  the  sub- 
ject to  the  illustration.  An  ill-timed  story  is  not  worse 
F 


;  -W 
54  BANBOLPH. 

than  an  ill-timed  quotation,  lugged  in,  by  the  head  and 
shoulders,  as  it  often  is. 

Another  thing:  you  are  quite  too  fine,  here  and  there, 
in  your  last.  There  is  too  much  tinsel;  too  little  heart, 
at  times.  Be  more  careful,  for  the  future — or,  rather, 
he  less  careful.  Don't  write  for  effect;  don't  study  to 
captivate;  and  you  will  he  much  more  likely  to  succeed. 
I  hate  antithesis — point — epigram — and  dirty  ostrich 
feathers — and  they  are  the  only  four  things,  I  helieve, 
that  I  do  hate. 

Oh — of  the  "unnatural  things,  produced  hy  Nature. 
Set  your  heart  at  rest,  cousin,  I  am  right — and  will  con- 
vince you,  in  the  morning;  at  present,  I  cannot.  It  is — 
or  it  wants  only  five  minutes  of  twelve  o'clock — of  a  Sat- 
urdav  night,  too,  and  I  cannot,  will  not  encroach  upon 
the  Sabbath;  (as  we  Christians  call  theirs/  day.) 

Good  night 

Good  morrow! 

My  proposition  was,  or,  at  least,  may  he  resolved  inta 
this:  that  in  nature,  some  things  are  found,  that  are  not 
natural.  Is  this  denied?  Are  monsters  natural?—  are  the 
lame,  and  halt,  and  blind,  natural?  No! — they  are  ex- 
ceptions to  what  is  natural.  Deformity  and  redundan- 
cy, are  only  so,  by  comparison  with  the  general  operation 
of  nature.  There  is  a  general  nature,  and  a  particular 
nature.  To  be  natural,  we  must  resemble  the  former; 
not  the  latter;  as  a  painter,  or  sculptor,  studies  the  spe- 
cies, not  the  individual.  Have  I  said  enough? 

Yes,  Frank,  it  is  possible  that  I  have  not  sought 
to  cherish  a  truly  Christian  spirit,  toward  Edward  Mol- 
ton;  it  is  possible  that  I  have  judged  him  too  harshly; 
hut,  nevertheless,  I  have  every  reason  to  believe,  that 
he  is  a  hypocrite,  a  dastard,  and  a  villain.  When  I  see 
good  cause  to  change  my  opinion,  depend  upon  it,  that 
I  shall  rejoice  to  avow  the  change,  as  publickly  as  I  have 
the  opinion.  'Till  then.  I  hope  not  to  mention  his  name 
again.  I  have  some  things  to  repent  of.  bitterly  and 
seriously,  in  which  he  was  concerned;  and,  while  I  think 
no  better  of  him,  I  think  much  worse  of  myself.  And,  as 


RANDOLPH, 


55 


an  especial  favour,  I  beg  of  you  not  to  mention  any  thing 
again,  that,  by  any  accident,  you  may  chance  to  hear  him 
say  of  me.  I  despise,  I  detest  him.  so  heartily,  that  I 
cannot  express  to  you,  how  humbled  I  feel,  when  1  learn 
that  he  speaks  of  me. 

1  am  going  into  the  country,  for  a  week,  where  I  hope 
to  get  permission  ....  But  no,  I  will  not  excite  your  cu- 
riosity. Tell  John  to  write  me;  and,  if  you  please,  you 
can  direct  your  letters,  for  the  next  week,  to 
Post  Office,  care  of . 

Farewell- — 


ANSWER— FRANK  TO  SARAH, 

Dear  Sarah — 

Allow  me,  while  my  very  forehead  reddens  with  shame, 
to  confess  the  truth.  That  French  sentence,  I  took  from 
my  common  place  book  ....  just  in  the  way  that  you 
said;  nay,  that  you  may  not  think  altogether  better  6T 
Hie,  than  I  deserve,  that  very  quotation  from  Tasso,  was 
taken  from  Rousseau,  as  you  conjectured! 1  happen- 
ed to  get  it  for  the  purpose  of  comparing  Byron  with  the 
original;  when  these  lines  struck  me,  and  I  transcrib- 
ed them;  determined  to  introduce  them,  the  very  first 
decent  opportunity,  either  in  conversation,  or  writ- 
ing. I  am  very  busy,  this  morning,  and  should  not 
have  written  you,  even  these  few  lines,  were  I  not  anx- 
ious to  shew  my  contrition,  as  speedily  as  possible,  for 
my  folly.  I  am  still  occupied  with  my  observations. 
John  is  strangely  myterious  of  late.  Something,  I  should 
imagine,  had  been  cleared  up,  in  that  adventure  of  Juli- 
et's; for  he  speaks  openly,  now,  of  his  intention  to  win 
her,  if  he  can.  And  I  say,  let  him,  if  he  can.  I  do  not 

believe  that  she,will  be  easily  brought  to  love  another. 

But  what  do  I  say? — is  she  not  exposed  to  incessant  im- 
portunity; a  secret  and  ever  active  influence?. ...and  may 
she  not  yield  at  last?  Cousin,  I  cannot  reason  upon  the 
subject  But  these,  the  following,  are  conclusions  that  I 


56  RANDOLPH. 

came  to,  when  I  was  able  to  reason.  If  she  marry  anoth* 
er,  she  must  either  love  him,  or  not  love  him.  If  she 
do  not  love  him,  she  is  base,  or  weak;  and  I  shall  nev- 
er make  myself  unhappy  about  her.  And,  if  she  do 
love  him,  he  will  be  either  worthy  of  her,  or  not  worthy 
of  her.  If  worthy  of  her,  then  she  will  be  happy,  and 
that  will  make  me  happy.  Arid  if  he  be  not — then  she 
will  prove  herself  to  be  not  the  woman  that  I  took  her 
for.  Behold  my  conclusion! 

Oh,  I  must  not  forget  to  tell  you,  that  John  has  just 
returned  from  Washington.  He  saw  Mr.  Arrinaut;  and 
Molton  has  not  a  more  devoted  friend  on  earth.  He 
said  to  my  brother,  as  they  parted,  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  "you  have  wronged  Molton — we  have  all  wronged 
him.  He  is  an  innocent  man,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned; 
further  than  that,  I  have  nothing  to  say.  He  has  con- 
vinced me — and  I  take  upon  myself  to  say,  that  Miss 

Howard  ....  or  Miss ,  her  real  name,  I  am  not 

permitted  to  tell,  is  a  woman,  fitted  for  the  society  of 
queens.  My  sister  has  been  with  herj  and,  I  doubt  not,  is 
the  wiser  and  better  for  it.  My  mother  knows  the 
whole — she  has  wept  over  the  letters  that  Mr.  Molton 
sent  to  her,  for  her  own  satisfaction-- absolutely  putting 
his  life  into  her  hands — and  she  now  speaks  of 
Howard,  as  of  a  daughter," 

Ever  yours f  cousin 

FRANK. 


3.YRAII  TO  FRANK. 

We  have,  at  last,  determined  to  go  through  New  Eng- 
land; and  I  am  to  be  left,  next  summer,  they  tell  me, 
somewhere  in  the  District  of  Maine;  what  will  become  of 
me — heaven  only  knows.  But  I  shall  be  among  a  host 
of  relations,  who,  I  am  told,  are  the  worthiest  people  in 
the  world.  Let  this  account  for  my  levity,  cousin,  and 
apologise  for  the  little  that  I  have  to  say.  Enclosed  is  the 
letter  which  led  to  the  discovery  of  Helen,  She  was 


BAtfDOLPH.  57" 

thought  to  be  in  America,  but  where,  it  was  impossible 
to  conjecture,  as  all  traces  of  a  lady,  whom  they  suppos- 
ed to  be  her,  were  lost  in  Richmond,  Virginia.  It 
was  then  that  my  father  was  written  to;  and  his  exten- 
sive correspondence  was  immediately  brought  in  aid  of 
the  wretched  parents.  But  all  to  no  purpose,  as  a  last  ex- 
pedient, the  advertisement,  which  you  saw,  was  written. 
That  led  to  the  very  point,  by  a  most  lucky  circumstance. 
You  know,  that  all  dead  letters,  as  they  are  called,  after 
some  previous  ceremonies,  are  sent  to  the  general  Post 
Office,  and  opened.  One  of  the  clerks,  struck  by  the  sin- 
gular beauty  of  the  writing  in  one,  that  he  opened,  read 
it;  and,  when  he  came  to  the  bottom,  found  the  initials  H. 
W.  O.  He  happened  to  recollect  the  advertisement,  for 
he  had  pasted  it  up  in  the  office;  and,  on  comparing  the 
whole,  he  felt  himself  justified  in  directing  the  letter,  not 
to  H.  W.  O.  at  the  place  where  it  was  written,  (the  usu- 
al practice,  when  they  apprehend  it  to  be  of  importance,) 
but  to  m}  father.— He  received  it,  and,  sending  immediate- 
ly for  the  young  man,  (a  most  interesting  fellow,  too,  as 
pur  fashionables  say,)  was  confirmed,  beyond  all  doubt, 
in  the  belief  that  Helen  was  the  writer.  The  next  thing 
was  to  ascertain  where  she  was.  The  letter,  as  you 
perceive,  was  written  in  this  city,  but  we  were  not  sat- 
isfied with  our  inquiries  here;  and  whether  we  should 
have  ever  fallen  upon  the  right  track,  is  very  problema- 
tical, had  I  not  seen  the  direction,  one  day,  by  chance, 
as  my  father  was  reading  it  again,  and  commending  the 
style.  Judge  of  my  astonishment.  I  had  h»  ard  of  Mol- 
ton's  half  sister;  and  I  knew  of  a  circumstance  that  seemed 
rather  mysterious,  if  she  were  truly  his  half  sister.  So  I 
wrote  to  Washington.  The  result  you  know.  You 
may  keep  her  letter  till  we  meet.  I  am  unwilling  to 
trust  it  by  mail,  and  I  hope  to  see  you  soon.  Mr.  Ma- 
rion (the  youngster  of  whom  f  spoke,)  appears  great- 
ly concerned  in  the  affair;  and  a  venerable  old  man  has 
called,  repeatedly,  on  my  father,  since  <  left  the  city,  I 
am  told,  who  is  determined  upon  taking  some  serious  mea- 
sures. There  is  one  thing  certain:  they  say,  that,  if  Mol- 
ton  be  her  betrayer,  he  is,  actually .  at  this  moment,  hold- 
ing his  life  at  the  mercy  of  the  law.  I  should  begin  to 


58  RANDOLPH. 

pitv  him,  sick  and  wasted  as  he  is,  were  lie  anybody  but 
Edward  Molton.  if  I  heard  that  he  was  arraigned  for  his 
life.  It  is  even  said — (but  this  in  confidence,  Frank,  you 
understand  me,  and  will  have  an  interest  in  keeping  it 
to  yourself) — it  is  said  that  there  was  something  inexpli- 
cable in  the  death  of  William.  -Do  you  start! — And  that 
—I  tremble,  Frank-^and  that  an  inquiry  will  yet  be  in- 
stituted. If  so,  let  Molton  beware!  There  is  an  incon- 
ceivable mysterious  ness  about  all  that  concerns  that  man. 
Something  has  happened  of  late,  to  make  me  question 
my  own  knowledge  of  his  affair  with  Juliet.  His  cha- 
acter  darkens,  and  she — she  is  mad,  I  verily  believe; 
for,!  have  good  reason  to  think,  that  she — let  it  not  hurt 
you,  my  dear  Frank,  to  hear  it — that  she  laves  him  yet. 
Yes,  I  am  aware  of  tne  contradiction;  but  hitherto  I 
have  been  mistaken. 

SARAH. 
( 'The  following  was  enclosed. ) 

New  -  York, „ 

Well,  Edward,  to  continue,  where  I  left  off;  and  this  I 
hope  will  be  the  last  of  my  journalizing.  I  like  no  place 
yet,  so  much  as  Richmond,  after  all.  The  people  here, 
are  pleasant;  there  is  enough  of  parade,  and  uproar,  to 
remind  me  of  London; — much  opulence,  but  it  is  all  mer- 
cantile opulence;  and  the  manners,  of  the  people  are 
those  of  the  newly  made  gentry.  Here  is  none  of  that 
lofty,  imposing,  natural  gentility,  which  I  have  seen  at 
Richmond.  The  people  of  Virginia,  to  say  the  truth, 
are  much  more  like  our  nobility,  than  any  of  their  coun- 
trvmen.  Perhaps,  we  may  attribute  something  of  this 
to  their  slave  population.  They  carry  that  air  of  do- 
minion, like  the  still  more  southern  planters,  (which  be- 
fits them,  in  a  republican  land,  only  when  surrounded 
by  their  slaves,)  into  all  the  concerns  of  life.  This  I  like, 
•where  I  have  seen  it; — for  there  it  was  proper  enough. 
How  I  should  like  the  same  lordly  air,  in  New  England, 
a  nation  of  men,  I  do  not  pretend  to  say.  But  one  thing 
you  must  have  observed.  It  struck  me  at  once.  From 
Boston  to  Charleston,  there  is  so  much  mannerism,  that 
1  think  I  could  tell  a  Philadelphian,  a  Baltimorean,  a 


RANDOLPH,  59 

New-Yorker,  a  Bostonian,  a  Virginian,  or  a  Charleston 
man — by  the  very  cut  of  his  coat — or  his  walk, — and, 
certainly,  by  his  pronunciation.  A  stranger  would 
hardly  believe  this,  vet  the  natives  aver  it;  and  the  little 
experience  that  I  have  had,  leaves  me  no  reason  to  doubt 
it  Moreover,  there  is  such  an  i  n vincible  nationality,  if 
I  ma>  so  express  myself,  in  the  people  of  each  city,  that 
tjieir  very  opinions  are  peculiar  and  characteristic!;;— 
nay,  their  dwellings,  their  spirit  of  enterprize,  commer- 
cial speculation,  and  literature  are  so.  An  amusing  jeal- 
ousy exists  among  them,  too.  They  have  a  court  lan- 
guage, of  their  own,  in  every  state;  and  all  that  live  out 
of  the  capital,  are  provincials,  of  course.  Nay,  the  peo- 
ple seem  to  partake  of  the  age  and  rank  of  their  respec- 
tive places  of  residence.  A  Philadelphian  carries  his 
nose  above  all  the  world, — except  the  New-Yorker. — 
One  boasts  of  his  literature;  another  of  his  great  canal. 
A  Bostonian  talks  about  letting  money  at  5  per  cent,  in- 
terest;— India  dock; — the  "dome" — the  Exchange: — 
Bunker's  Hill;— Faneuil  Hall,  &c.  and  fancies  that  all 
rivalry  is  presumptuous.  The  New-Yorker  carries  you 
over  the  CITY  HALI,; — talks  of  De  Witt  Clinton,  and  a 
superannuated  old  gentleman,  to  whom  the  Emperor  of 
all  the  Russiashas  lately  sent  a  ring;  -  lounges  up  broad- 
wav,  and  swears  that  "that  are  is  the  capital  of  all  North 
America."  But  go  to  Philadelphia,  and  you  are  "done 
up"  at  once,  with  criticism,  and  taste,  and  science; — they 
make  the  handsomest  gigs  in  the  world — the  best  boots 
—and  are  the  most  regular  bred  people  in  the  union;— 
have,  what  they  call,  the  Water  Wwks — (where  a 
wooden  image  holds  a  wooden  swan — through  whose 
beak,  a  little  squirt  of  water  runs  up,  now  and  then,  to 
the  height  of  ten  or  a  dozen  feet,) — and  a  Masonick 
Hall,  where  there  is  a  wooden  Washington; — a  picture 
gallery,  among  which  is  a  picture  by  Mr.  West, — the  vi- 
lest thing  that  he  has  ever  done,  in  my  opinion, — where, 
after  you  have  paid  for  admission,  you  are  made  to  pay 
12£  cents  more,  for  a  criticism,  evidently  written  by 
somebody  that  never  saw  the  picture.  Next,  you  go  to 
Baltimore,  and  there  you  find,  among  a  people  of  adven- 
turers, slave  dealers,  privateers  men,  broken  merchants, 
pirates,  mail  robbers*  and  rioters,  the  same  ridiculous  pre- 


68  RANDOLPH. 

tension,  in  another  shape.  In  Baltimore,  they  do  not  value 
themselves  for  their  literature,  or  age,  or  wealth;  hut  for 
having  shot  General  Ross,  at  North  Point;— -for  having 
built  two  monuments— and  several  of  the  best  privateers 
that  ever  infested  the  seas; — and  for  having  grown  up 
faster  than  any  people,  ever  did;  not  even  excepting  those 
of  St.  Petersburg,  when  they  exhausted  the  resources  of 
the  whole  Russian  Empire. 

Thus  a  Baltimorean  comes  from  the  "fast  city  in  the 
union;"  he  proves  it  by  referring  to  the  year  1752,  when 
there  were  only  three  or  four  miserable  hovels,  where 
the  city  now  stands, — and  all  their  commerce  was  carried 
on  by  one  or  two  fishing  smacks. 

A  Philadelphian  proves,  that  he  is  from  the  "first  city 
in  the  union,"  by  referring  to  the  last  census,  where,  it 
appears,  that  there  were  more  cattle,  within  the  liberties, 
than  within  those  of  any  other  city  of  the  United  States. 

A  New-Yorker,  to  prove  the  right  of  his  city  to  the 
first  rank,  refers  to  the  next  census.  And  a  Bostonian, 
appeals  to  history,  and  shows  that  Boston  is  first,  be- 
cause oldest. 

And  when  you  get  to  Charleston,  you  find  the  people 
there,  affecting  the  same  airs,  on  just  about  as  rational 
grounds;  one  of  which,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  is  the  de- 
fence of  Sullivan's  Island, forty  >r  fifty  years  ago. 

But  in  Richmond,  I  have  found  nothing  of  this.  The 
distinction  that  they  seek,  is  one,  that  is  perfectly 
evident,  they  have  found, — from  that  air  of  self  compla- 
cency— and  negligent  superciliousness,  which  charac- 
terise them.  They  affect  to  disdain  all  competition  with 
the  plebeians  of  the  north; — commerce  is  beneath  them; 
literature — O,  it  is  all  froth  and  flummery — except  what 
is  imported:  though,  perhaps,  an  occasional  look  into  a 
Philadelphia  publication,  is  taken,  by  way  of  seeing  what 
the  pleasant  barbarians  of  the  north  are  about. 

Shall  I  go  on?  I  will,  for  one  more  page,  and  then, 
farewell  forever,  to  this  ungenerous  return,  for  so  murh 
politeness  and  attention,  as  I,  a  stranger,  have  recei  ved 
from  the  people  of  all  these  cities.  Yet — would  you  he- 
lie  ve  it.  /  am  only  repeating,  what  they  say  of  each  other! 
nnd  what  is  believed  too,  by  each,  of  all  but  themselves! 


RANDOLPH.  61 

I  spoke  of  their  character.  I  will  give  you  an  exam- 
ple or  two.  In  Philadelphia  there  is  all  the  cold,  plod- 
ding, cautious  deportment,  of  suspicious  age,  toward  a 
stranger,  even  when  well  recommended.  You  deliver 
your  letters — and  are  asked  to  call  again — are  told  that 
the  gentleman  will  he  very  glad  to  see  you — at  his  count- 
ing room.  He  will  be  happy  to  see  you,  any  where,  but 
at  his  dinner  table,  or  fireside.  He  is  afraid  of  his  daugh- 
ters— or  his  spoons.  Yet,  after  a  time,  strangers  are  de- 
lighted with  the  Philadelphians.  They  are  sincere,  cor- 
dial, and  direct;  well  informed,  polite,  and  sufficiently 
indulgent.  But  I  never  knew  a  stranger,  of  a  few  days, 
not  superlatively  introduced  there,  who  did  not  curse 
them  all,  for  a  sordid,  unfeeling,  mercenary  people. 

In  New-York,  there  is  a  royal  opulence,  in  their  style 
of  living;  great  warmth,  approaching  to  imprudence,  and 
very  little  discrimination,  in  their  treatment  of  stran- 
gers. 

In  Boston,  it  is  much  the  same,  provided  one  comes 
from  England.  There,  he  is  feasted  and  feasted,  and 
puffed,  till  he  may  literally  eat  his  way,  at  the  publick 
expense,  from  Dan  to  Beersheba.  But  in  Baltimore, — 
they  have  all,  or  rather  had,  for  they  are  beginning  now 
to  be  cautious,  having  been  cruelly  bit  by  a  few  of  our  stray 
nobility — (by  the  way,  remind  me  of  this,  when  we  meet, 
and  I  will  relate  some  amusing  anecdotes,  in  illustration 
of  our  impudence,  and  their  credulity) — a  most  improvi- 
dent warm-heartedness  toward  every  thing  in  the  shape  of 
a  stranger.  Like  people  in  their  youth,  full  of  youthful 
properties,  unsuspicious,  careless  and  noisy,  the  whole 
city  is  ringing,  from  one  end  to  the  other,  if  a  stranger, 
of  any  notoriety — an  elephant,  or  a  nobleman — an  Ameri- 
can general,  or  a  pair  of  mustachios — a  brute,  or  a 
mountebank,  appears — it  is  all  the  same  to  them — the 
dwellings  are  emptied,  like  the  baby  houses  of  children, 
and  the  streets  are  impassable  till  the  raree-show  has 
departed. 

You  speak  of  their  publick  buildings.  Some  of  them 
are  beautiful,  it  must  be  confessed;  but  to  hear  the  Ameri- 
cans talk  about  them,  you  would  be  led  to  believe  that 
the  seven  wonders  of  the  world,  at  least,  were  within 


62  -RANDOLPH. 

the  circumference  of  every  city  of  the  union.  What  is 
truly  their  own,  is  overlooked; — the  thunder  of  their  ca- 
taracts;— their  rivers  and  mountains — unrivalled  and  un- 
approachable— are  all  forgotten,  so  laughably  too,  at 
times,  that  a  friend  of  mine  solemnly  assures  me,  that,  he 
lately  had  occasion  to  speak  of  the  trembling,  and  con- 
tinual noise,  that  appears  to  issue  from  the  earth,  and  fill 
the  whole  sky,  within  two  or  three  miles  of  Niagara,  to  a 
man  who  had  grown  old  in  its  thunder  and  spray,  who, 
-he  soon  found,  had  never  given  himself  any  trouble  about 
the  cause  of  either;  for  he  expressed  some  indignation, 
like  one  that  resents  an  attempt  to  impose  upon  his  credu- 
lity— when  my  friend  informed  him,  that  the  rest  of  the 
-world  was  silent  and  still, — that  other  lands  neither 
shook  nor  sounded — and  that  other  skies  were  as  silent 
as  these  would  be.  if  he  should  stop  his  ears. 

I  have  only  a  moment  more— in  whicb,  if  you  are  not 
already  wearied  to  death,  you  may  follow  me,  dear  Ed- 
ward, while  I  speak  of  the  public k  buildings. 

I  will  begin  with  Boston,  because  I  begun  there. 
There  are  some  pretty  churches;  (including  one  that  they 
mean  to  build,  which  is,  already,  the  most  beautiful 
building  on  paper,  in  the  world) — and  some  about  as 
grotesque  and  fantastick,  clumsy  things,  as  you  can  well 
imagine.  *The  Exchange  is  a  noble  building — hemmed 
in,  arid  blocked  up,  by  an  encampment  of  printing  offices, 
tailors'  shops,  and  shoemakers.  Then,  there  is  a  State 
House,  a  great  clumsy,  awkwardly  contrived  affair, 
perched  on  the  top  of  a  beautiful  round  hill,  like  a  fat 
man  on  a  feather  bed;  much  too  big  for  the  hill;  with  the 
head  and  shoulders  far  too  big  for  the  body.  The  Mall 
is  beautiful — and  the  stupendous  undertaking  which  they 
are  soon  to  begin,  for  connecting,  with  a  solid  block  of 

masonry,  a  part  of Northampton,  1  believe,  with  west 

Boston,  is,  it  is  in  vain  to  deny  it — a — a .  They 

have  a  Court  House,  too,  with  a  front  of  Chelmsford  gra- 
nite; and  its  wings  askew,  which  1  particularly  admired, 
from  the  position,  where  I  stood.  The  State  Prison,  at 
Charleston,  is  however,  of  a  better  character.  There 

•Lately  destroyed  by  fire. 


RANDOLPH.  63 

is  no  pretension  to  beauty;  but  it  is  a  strong,  dark,  useful 
pile  of  building.  Several  dwelling  houses  are  noble  — 
one  or  two,  (building  near  the  State  House)  princely; 
and,  taken  together,  I  suspect  that  they  are  better  built, 
and  more  comfortably  arranged,  than  any  others  in  this 
country.  There  are,  also,  four  or  five  bridges,  by  which 
you  enter  the  town;  not  one  of  which  is  even  tolerable, 
as  a  matter  of  architecture.  I  must  not  forget  the  Mall, 
neither,  as  they  call  it,  in  a  spirit  of  paltry  imitation, 
together  with  their  Park  pJocSr  and  Suffolk  place,  and  4> 
Bowdoin  square,  and  this  court,  and  that  court  —  all 
of  which,  I  am  already  American  enough,  after  breath- 
ing the  air,  for  a  few  weeks,  to  despise  very  cordially. 
But  the  Mall,  as  a  walk,  not  as  a  Mall,  is  unrivalled. 
At  a  distance,  the  town  looks  like  an  amphitheatre,  with 
a  great  brick  pile,  whose  disproportion  is  not  to  be  dis- 
covered, then  —  crowning  it,  like  a  square  of  palaces. 
But  the  streets  —  O,  it  is  in  vain  to  think  of  describing 
them.  No  stranger  should  venture  abroad,  without  a 
chart  and  pocket  compass.  A  gentleman,  whom  I  knew, 
assured  me,  with  a  face  that  I  shall  never  forget,  (a  by- 
stander would  have  thought  that  he  was  talking  treason;) 
that,  after  twenty  attorn  pts,  in  as  many  different  directions, 
to  escape  from  an  enclosure  with  a  high  brick  wall,  he  was 
brought  up,  twenty  times  in  succession,  by  the  very  place 
that  he  started  from.  It  was  a  grave-yard.  Every  lane 
and  alley,  street  and  passage,  seemed  to  terminate  there, 
and  only  there.  Start  which  way  he  would,  east,  west, 
north  or  south,  the  end  of  his  walk  was  always  the  same 
high  brick  wall,  with  "the  place  of  graves,"  within  it. 

Thus  much  for  Boston.  —  But,  when  you  get  to  New- 
York  —  (By  the  way,  I  have  overlooked  New  Haven,  and 
its  churches  and  colleges;and  Cambridge  —  all  of  which  are 
exceedingly  wonderful  and  imposing  —  to  the  inhabitants 
and  professors,)  —  you  find  yourself  arrested,  in  a  noble 
street,  by  a  truly  magnificent  building  —  the  City  Hall. 
It  lias  two  fronts;  one  of  fine  marble,  and  one  of  browu 
freestone!  —  You  may  judge  of  the  effect,  when  you  stand 
at  the  ends.  There  is  a  house  in  Boston,  constructed  in 
the  same  spirit  of  pleasantry.  Approach  it  as  you  will, 
the  front  being  of  granite,  you  perceive  the  ends  to  be 


* 


64  RANDOLPH.  ,^ 

brick.  That  is  a  truly  American  spirit;  showy  and  boast- 
ful, without  propriety,  fitness,  or  taste.  But  you  can 
not  approach  even  the  City  Hall,  without  perceiving  some- 
what more  of  the  same  spirit,  in  front; — for  the  enclos- 
ure there,  is  askew;  so  that  you  cannot  enter  it,  and  march 
directly  up  to  the  great  steps.  No;  you  must  oblique  and 
manoeuvre,  or  you  will  never  get  there.  1  know  of  no- 
thing else  worth  description.  There  are  some  paltry 
publick  buildings,  many  handsome  private  houses,  and  a 
^respectable  penitentiary]F(a  matter  of  which  the  Ameri- 
cans seem  especially  jealous — and,  toward  which,  they 
are  often  abundantly  magnificent,  perhaps  with  a  pre- 
sentiment like  that  of  Swift,  when  he  founded  a  mad- 
house, and  made  all  things  comfortable  about  it.) 

Well — we  are  now  at  Philadelphia.  Of  course,  the 
Pennsylvania  Bank  is  to  be  praised  again;  (for  the  Uni- 
ted States'  Bank  is  not  yet  thought  of:) — no!  for  once  I 
must  disappoint  you.  I  don't  like  it.  It  is  too  cold,  for- 
mal, and  quaker-like.  We  don't  want  Greek  temples  for 
banking  houses.  No— I  do  not  like  it.  It  wants  that 
which  gives  a  charm  to  every  thing,  and  without  which, 
the  purest  and  most  beautiful  creations  of  genius,  are 
base  and  inefficient; — it  wants  suitableness.  The  water- 
works, of  which  you  have  heard  so  much,  are  paltry:  the 
markets  fine — particularly  the  butchers'  division;  but 
the  market-houses,  throughout  the  country,  except  in 
Boston,  are  contemptible.  The  Schuylkill  bridge  is  a 
pretty  affair  enough;  but  you  will  be  surprised,  after  all 
that  you  have  heard  of  it,  when  you  know  of  what  it  is 
built.  Is  it  iron?— No!  Stone?— -No!  What  then?  Deal 
boards  and  logs.  There  are  some  respectable  private 
buildings,  country  seats,  wire  bridges,  wire  fences,  and 
publick  institutions;  but  nothing  that  I  think  worth  troub- 
ling you  about. 

We  will  now  go  to  Baltimore,  if  you  please.  There 
you  will  find  the  handsomest,  because  the  most  appro- 
priate, publick  edifices  in  America.  With  the  exception 
of  the  capitol  at  Washington,  a  magnificent  pile  of  stone 
and  marble — painted! — and  a  sweet,  pretty  church  at 
Richmond,  the  description  of  which  has  gone  the  rounds 
of  Europe,  like  a  problem  in  geometry,  defying  all  con- 


.RANDOLPH.  65 

Jecture  as  to  its  purpose;  and  the  city  hall  in  New- York; 

ami — and — and — there  is  none  so  truly  beautiful. 

First,  there  is  the  Cathedral,  a  heavy  pile  of  granite, 
somewhat  after  the  fashion  of  St.  Peter's;  and  the  grand- 
est building,  of  its  dimensions,  that  I  ever  stood  within: 
then,  there  is  the  Unitarian  church,  a  piece  of  exquisite 
deception — manufactured  of  lime-stone,  wooden-bronze, 
and  pine-marble; — that  is,  without  punning,  or  attempt- 
ing to  pun — plastered  and  stuccoed,  till  the  eye  is  com- 
pletely deceived  into  a  notion  that  it  is  stone.  Then, 
fthere  is  a  pillar,  which  is  (or  will  be,)  a  round,  substan- 
tial affair  of  marble,  called  the  Washington  Monument. 
Edward,  I  must  be  serious  here.  I  cannot  write  or  speak 
the  name  of  GEORGE  WASHINGTON,  without  a  contrac- 
tion, and  dilation  of  the  heart,  if  I  do  it  irreverently.-^} 
The  pillar  is  grand — plain — substantial;  and  I  like  it 
better  than  I  should,  a  work  of  ten  thousand  times  more 
architectural  merit.  It  is  only  wonderful  to  me,  that  a 
series  of  blundering,  should  have^roduced  so  simple  and 
august  a  thought.  But,  I  suppose  'that  the  building  com- 
mittee could  not  agree  upon  the  ornamental  part—like 
all  who  cjuarrel  about  matters  of  taste — and  so,  awarded 
such  as  they  could  agree  upon;  which  was,  naturally,  the 
simplest  proposition.  But  was  it  wise?  Would  it  not 
have  been  better,  had  the  money  which  this  pillar  has 
cost,  been  applied  to  some  equally  permanent,  equally 
ornamental,  and  more  useful  purpose — such,  for  .instance, 
'as  a  hospital  for  the  men  of  the  revolution?  [Will  not 
others  look  for  the  same  reward?— and  will  riot  monu- 
ments, in  time,  become  as  common  in  America,  as  titles 
are,  even  now? — to  say  nothing  of  the  ridiculous  conceit 
of  perpetuating  the  memory  of  GEORGE  WASHINGTON  by 
a  work,  that  must  crumble  in  a  few  centuries.  |  .  .  . 

Why  is  it,  Edward,  that  I  never  think  of  that  man, 
without  sitting  more  erect  in  my  chair?  When  I  was  at 
home,  I  dreaded  to  approach  him.  I  feared  that  I  should 
find  him,  as  I  had  others,  who  were  called  great.  They 
were  pyramids  at  a  distance: — hut,  when  I  approached — 

I  found  them  built  of  pebbles. 1  came. 1  stood 

upon  his  grave.     I  plucked  off  a  branch  from  the  dark 
cedars,  that  had  sprung  from  it.  Were  they  instinct  with 


66  RANDOLPH. 

his  spirift — They  had  heen  nourished  with  his  hlood — and 
substance. — The  thought  makes  me  tremble.  Some 
fancy  possessed  me.  I  went  home,  and  bent  one  of  the 
beautiful  little  branches  into  the  form  of  a  weeping 
willow — pasted  it  on  paper,  and  painted  the  grave  un- 
derneath it,  with  all  the  shadow  and  desolation  of  truth. 
God  of  heaven! — Edward — not  a  flower  sprung  there! 
What  would  I  have  given,  for  one  blessed  little  violet,  that 
had  blossomed,  perhaps,  out  of  the  moisture  ef  the  giant's 
heart! — Might  it  not  be?  He  was  gentle;  and  if  warmth 
and  richness  of  soil  were  enough,  his  tomb  had  been  a  heap 
of  blossom  and  verdure — trodden  and  crushed  incense 
and  odour . 

Farewell — my  heart  is  too  full  for  trifling,  now . 

Good  night. 
(CONTINUED.) 
Morning. — • — 

As  this  letter  is  the  last,  probably,  that  I  shall 
write  in  the  form  that  you  have  directed,  it  would  be  a 
pity  to  seal  it,  without  the  improvement,  as  they  call  the 
application,  or  moral  of  a  sermon,  here,  accompanying 
it,  like  a  subtilely  distilled  essence,  with  which  you  can 
reanimate  the  earth  that  goes  with  it,  whenever  you 
please. 

The  application,  then,  is, is really,  I  forget  it 

entirely;  let  me  go  back,  for  a  moment . 

O — I  have  omitted,  I  see,  to  speak  of  several  things 
worthy  of  a  traveller's  notice  in  Baltimore.  There  is 
the  Exchange,  the  best  contrived  building,  and,  to  my 
taste,  more  entirely  beautiful,  of  the  kind,  than  any  that 
I  have  ever  seen,  except  that  at  Berlin,  (the  new  one,  I 
mean.)  Yet,  here  is  the  same  base,  showy  spirit,  of 
which  I  have  before  complained.  It  is  plastered  all  over; 
and  this  plaster  is  cunningly  managed,  by  the  applica- 
tion of  gray  paint,  to  look  like  stone;  nay,  even  the  real 
stone  about  it,  is  painted.  Upon  my  word,  I  should 
prefer  the  sober  honesty  of  Dutch  brick; — this  is  rouging, 
with  a  vengeance.  The  publick  authorities,  and  publick 
edifices,  paint  and  patch,  and  cheat;  and  how  can  they 
have  the  face  to  scold  the  women  for  such  things?  Ano- 
ther fault  is,  that,  as  you  stand  beneath  the  dome,  you  are 


RANDOLPH.  67 

immediately  struck  with  a  painful  sense  of  instability  in 
the  pillars.  They  are  massy — Dorick — and  of  beauti- 
ful Italian  marble,  imported  with  their  capitals;  but  they 
rest  upon  the  brick  pavement.  A  slight  expense  would 
remedy  this.  Let  a  few  bricks  be  taken  up,  and  a  frame 
of  marble,  of  the  same  colour  as  the  columns,  be  set  in, 
even  with  the  pavement,  and  the  sensation  would  never 
return — at  least  to  me;  for,  between  ourselves,  I  shall, 
probably,  never  see  it  again.  Another  fault,  I  discover- 
ed. I  am  sure  that  it  is  one;  the  arch  on  the  front  side, 
as  you  stand  in  the  centre  of  the  building,  facing  the 
great  entrance,  goes  beyond  a  semi-circle — and,  un- 
luckily, begins  to  contract,  before  it  unites  with  the  pil- 
lars; and  then,  it  changes  its  direction.  The  sight  was 
painful  to  me — and  mine  is  not  an  experienced  eye. 
There  is  a  Medical  College  there,  t  oo,  furnished,  I  am 
told,  with  the  best  philosophical  apparatus,  in  the  country. 
It  may  be  so;  but  they  are  well  supplied  at  Cambridge, 
and  in  Philadelphia.  However,  there  is  one  thing,  at 
which  you  will  smile.  At  the  Hospital,  the  students  are 
set  to  studying — not  morbid  anatomy — 0,  no — that 
might  shock  and  distress  them — but  dead  people  in  wax 
work .* 

There,  Edward,  I  cannot  go  On— my  travelling  spirit 
—my  familiar  has  departed.  Have  I  not  caught  the  true 
manner?  Are  not  my  decisions,  just  as  off-hand  and  pe- 
remptory— my  tone,  as  pert  and  arrogant,  as  would  befit  a 
publisher  of  travels.  One  of  my  countrymen,  they  say, 
here;  and,  really,  I  am  ready  to  believe  it,  for  no  one  has 
done  justice  to  this  noble,  generous,  boastful  people, 
was  once  making  a  book,  at  the  rate  of  one  hundred 
miles  a  day.  He  came  to  a  tavern.  "Give  me  some  bacon 
and  eggs,"  said  he.  "We  have  none."  "What — no  ba- 
con and  eggs?"  he  repeated,  \\hippedouthisjournal,  and 
entered  "No  pork  this  side  of  the  Alleganies;  bacon  and 
eggs,  not  to  be  had,  for  love  or  money." 

Farewell;  once  more,  farewell — of  one  thing,  only,  I 
can  complain,  in  sincerity;  and  that  is,  of  their  too  little 
republican  plainness,  among  this  people.  They  have  tou 
much  deference  for  us;  in  fashion — opinion — literature 
and  the  arts.  This  should  not  be.  In  literature,  they  are 

*  No  longer  to— finest  collection,  of  morbid  anatomy  in  the  country,  nnt>«— £4. 


68  RANDOLPH* 

our  equals;  (I  speak  of  the  present  generation.)  In  arts, 
particularly  that  of  painting,  they  are,  abundantly,  our 
superiours.  And,  in  what  others,  have  we  a  right  to  dis- 
pute? What  do  we  know  of  musick,  or  architecture,  or 
sculpture?  Nothing — certainly,  nothing  of  the  latter, 
and  not  more  than  they  do,  of  the  former. 
Adieu,  forever  adieu,  to  journalising. 

W.  H.  O. 


JOHN  TQj  SARAH. 

Midnight 

How  long  it  is,  dear  Sarah,  since  I  have  written  to 
you!  But  you  will  forgive  me,  knowing,  as  you  do,  my 
propensity  for  doing  such  matters,  by  fits,  and  starts; 
beside,  Frank  has  become  your  correspondent;  and,  I 

dare  say,  that  you no,  I  won't  say  what  I  was  going 

to.  It  would  have  been  affectation.  I  take  it  for  grant- 
ed, that  my  letters  are  acceptable  to  you;  and  that,  when 
they  are  not,  you  will  tell  me  so. 

Frank  is  another  man,  of  late.  He  is  strangely  af- 
fected— with  what,  I  know  not;  but  he  has  grown  very 
pa  le;  and  I  find  him  constantly  in  company  with  a  cou- 
ple of  strangers,  an  old  man,  and  a  young  one,  whose 
countenance  has  something  very  pleasant,  though  very 
fiery,  in  it;  the  manner  of  the  old  man  is  noble  arid 
erect;  but  he  seems  to  be  feeble,  and,  I  should  think,  very 
sore  at  the  heart.  How  is  it,  cousin?  I  ask  you,  because 
I  have  reason  to  believe,  that  you  know  them  b  oth.  Did 
you  not  introduce  them  to  Frank?  Nay,  I  do  not  blame 
you.  My  numberless  indiscretions  have  offended  you; 
or  is  it  because  I  am  younger,  a  very  little,  by  the  way, 
though,  than  Frank — that  you  dared  not  trust  to  me? — 
But,  no  matter.  There  is  my  hand.  I  forgive  you.  Your 
reasons  are  good,  I  am  sure.  Take  your  own  good  time 
to  explain  them;  and  believe,  meanwhile,  that  your  secret, 
though  you  dared  not  trust  me  with  it,  is  safe.  I  know 
not  if  these  men  are  watched;  but  I  have  some  reason  to 
suspect  it;  and,  if  you  are  any  way  concerned  in  the  mat- 
ter, you  can  apprise  Frank  of  it.  I  cannot.  We  have 
quarrelled,  lately,  and  I  shall  not  be  the  first  to  ad- 
vance. They  never  go  out,  I  find,  except  after  nights 


RANDOLPH.  69 

and  then,  with  abundant  caution,  like  conspirators. — 
Nay,  cousin,  seriously,  if  you  were  not  concerned  in  the 
affair;  or,  if  I  had  met  them  alone,  and  seen  their  move- 
ment, such  as  I  saw  last  night,  when  somebody  follow- 
ed me  to  my  very  door — stopped,  when  I  stopped — re- 
treated, and  went  on,  just  as  I  did,  like  the  echo  of  my 
own  footsteps-  -evidently,  as  I  have  reason  to  believe, 
while  mistaking  me  for  the  younger  of  these  two — I 
should  inform  the  police,  immediately,  and  have  them 
both  taken  into  custody. 

Juliet — (cousin,  I  feel  a  sense  of  suffocation  now — but 
— it  must  come.)  Juliet  will  not  listen  to  me.  I  know 
not  whom  she  loves; — but.  be  it  whom  it  will, — it  is  a  love 
that  will  carry  her  to  her  grave.  It  is  unchangeable — 
immortal.  Nay — more  than  this, — there  is  somewhat 
inexplicable  in  the  deportment  of  Molton  toward  her. 
Am  I  his  confidant?  I  believe  that  I  am.  At  one  time, 
I  thought  that  I  could  read  his  heart.  He  appears  to 
have  no  disguise.  I  am  obliged  to  believe  him;  for  there 
is  no  trick,  no  subterfuge,  no  artifice  about  him.  If  I 
ask  bim  a  question,  he  either  answers  it,  at  once;  or  says 
plainly,  that  he  cannot,  or  will  not.  I  find,  too,  that  he 
has  not  been  so  intimate  with  her,  as  I  supposed.  Tell 
me,  Sarah, — tell  me,  my  dear  cousin?  Do  you  believe 
that  it  is  Molton,  whom  she  loves?  Tell  me  plainly*. 
1  can  bear  it — 1  am  sure  I  can.  It  may  kill  me  in  time; 
because,  with  him  for  a  rival,  1  have  no  hope; — but  it 
will  not  do  it  immediately.  If  she  do  not, — how  is  it,  that 
his  name — his  very  name,  so  agitates  her?  I  have  seen 
her  colour  to  the  eyes, — and  then  become  so  deathly  pale, 
that  I  had  not  the  strength  to  touch  her — she  was  like  a 
corpse — -at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  as  he  passed,  one  day 
in  the  street.  If  I  thought  so — by  heaven,  I  would  blast 
him  forever.  What! — O,  no — no — no!  He  is  all  that  is 
noble.  He  is  in  my  power,  Sarah; — and  I  cannot  use  it 
ungently.  But  no — no!-— I  am  the  veriest  blockhead  in 
the  world.  Is  not  her  emotion  natural  enough,  when 
she  hears  the  voice  of  her  destroyer; — William,  alas,  thou 
wast  dearly  loved,  too  dearly  perhaps,  for  thine  own 
peace, — but  who  would  not  have  died,  as  thou  didst,  to  b« 
so  lamented! — 

GrS 


70  BANDOMU, 

You  know  that  Maria  or  Mary  Howard  is  not  his  sis- 
ter. But  do  you  know,  who  she  is?  It  is  in  vain  to  con- 
ceal it  any  longer.  Perhaps  you  know  it  all;  for  Frank 
did,  I  believe,  as  soon  as  it  happened.  I  have  determin- 
ed to  sound  Molton's  heart, — I  have  had  a  terrible  suspi- 
cion sometimes, — but  he  is  inaccessible  to  me.  He  on- 
ly smiles,  looks  me  in  the  face,  and  shakes  his  head — as 
much  as  to  say;  "Forbear — my  heart  has  no  door  for  the 
suspicious."  I  speak  of  Juliet.  He  betrays  no  emotion. 
I  even  mention  Hrlen; — the  colour  of  his  troubled  blue 
eye  deepens,  but  his  voice  changes  not.  Gracious  heaven; 
what  a  woman  she  is; — so  beautiful,  so  mournfully  and 
touchingly  beautiful!— O,  I  feel  sometimes,  when  she  sings, 
as  if  I  could  lay  down  my  head  in  her  lap,  and  weep 
there  forever,  at  the  sound  of  her  voice;  and  then,  her  dark, 
lustrous  eyes — at  times  they  are  fastened  upon  the  face  of 
Molton,  as  he  sits  by  her,  and  reads — (O,  would  that 
you  could  hear  him  read — there  is  no  musick  HkeUt — so 
impassioned — so  solemn — so  thrilling) — with  an  expres- 
sion, that  is no,  it  is  not  love — it  is  not  tenderness 

— it  is  something  more  terrible.  At  such  moments,  I 
knew  not  what  to  think  of  her.  I  am  the  only  visitor. 
Nobody  else  is  admitted;  and  I  go  there,  I  know  not  why, 
— perhaps,  as  I  went  to  the  dramas  of  Germany — to  be 
agitated,  and  alarmed.  Shall  I  ever  be  able  to  read  his 
heart,  as  he  does  mine?  I  fear  not!— yet  he  is  but  little 
older,  a  very  little  older  than  1  am.  Where  has  he  learnt 

his  art? — it  is  that  of  a  long  apprenticeship  to death, 

I  was  near  saying — but,  certainly,  to  calamity  and  trial; 
if  not  to  somewhat  yet  more  dreadful.  Nothing  seems 
to  appal  him.  I  have  seen  a  pistol  held  to  his  breast — 
and  the  agitated  finger  of  a  man,  choking  with  passion, 
was  upon  the  trigger.  Was  he  so  well  prepared  for 
death?  He  smiled; — he  never  put  out  his  hand, — he 

would'nt  deign  to  put  it  aside  from   his  heart; and 

yet,  upon  my  forehead,  and  I  was  only  a  spectator,  tha 
sweat  stood  in  large  drops. 

The  same  severe  quiet  spirit,  he  carries  forever.  He 
was  riding  through  Connecticut,  Helen  says,  not  long 
since — when  several  good  people  came  out  against  him, 
with  staves,  thinking  to  take  him, — dead  or  alive,  for 


RANDOLPH,  71 

0 

ridine}  on  a  Sunday.  He  smiled  and  suffered  them  to 
gather  round,  until  they  were  ready  to  unharness  his  car- 
riage; when  he  leisurely  drew  his  pistol — looked  to  the 
priming; — "gentlemen,"  said  he,  "you  profess  to  be  citi- 
zens; but  my  notion  is  that  you  are  highwaymen,  and  I 
shall  not  consent  to  be  stopped  under  such  a  pretence." 
The  good  people  instantly  abandoned  the  horses,  and 
took  to  their  heels;  but,  willing  to  quicken  their  pace, 
Molton  made  deliberate  aim  at  one  of  them,  and  shot 
away  a  part  of  his  camblet  cloak,  in  mere  wanton- 
ness. 

The  other  day,  too — but  why  recapitulate  such  things, 
He  is  a  man  of  iron.  He  has  none  of  the  attributes  of 
humanity.  He  is  dying,  I  believe — but  he  forbids  me  to 
allude  to  it,  or  to  observe  it  before  Helen ;  for  she  appears  to 
feel  every  change  in  him,  like  the  touch  of  death  upon 
her  own  heart  I  have  seen  her  faint  away; — and  lie, 
like  a  dead  creature,  for  hours,  when  he  happened  to 
grow  suddenly  pale,  and  put  his  hand  to  his  side.  There 
is  a  ridiculous  rumour  about,  which  some  experience  of 
my  own,  makes  me  regard  more  seriously,  than  I  would. 
It  is  said  that  the  house  is  haunted! — and  I  am  sure  that 
I  heard  noises  there  (in  the  room  too,  where  Molton 
sleeps,  and  where  I  used  to  sleep)  last  night, — that — I 
knew  not  why,  affected  me  in  an  unaccountable  manner. 
I  felt  as  if  somebody  were  near  me  *  *  *  *  ah — a  groan 
#  *  *  What!  #*###  ##  *  *  It  is 
Molton  himself.  *  #  *  I  went  to  the  door,  and  spoke  to 
him — but  either  his  voice  had  changed,  or  I  was  more 
disturbed  than  I  afm  willing  to  believe;  for,  when  he  re- 
plied, my  terrour  amounted  almost  to  phrensy.  The 
voice  was  not  his.  It  was  sepulchral.  What  could  pos- 
sess me? — I  smote  at  the  door  —It  yielded;  and  I  fell  at  my 
full  length. — The  only  thing,  that  I  recollect,  distinctly, 
is,  that  Molton  stood,  as  if  death  struck — pale — ghostly 
pale,  and  shivering,  with  his  arms  outstretched,  as  I  en- 
tered!~and  that  he  exclaimed— or  at  least,  the  words  rang 
in  my  affrighted  ears,  all  night  long-"  William!  William!" 
The  light  fell  from  his  hand,  and  we  lay  together  in 

darkness,  till  they  came  to  relieve  us. How  long 

we  were  so,  I  know  not.    But,  it  appears  to  me  that  we 


72  RANDOLPH. 

are  all  mad!-— When  I  recovered,  for  I  was  stunned,  I 
saw  Molton  sitting  at  his  table — a  naked  sword  lay  upon 
it — and  a  pair  of  pistols. — Helen  was  sitting  beside  him, 
in  her  night  dress,  and  clinging  to  him,  O,  with  such 
distracted  eyes,  and  bloodless  lips,  that  my  veins  ran 
cold  in  looking  at  her. 

Molton  never  spoke  nor  moved.  1  waited  like  a  cul- 
prit, willing  to  hear  his  voice: — and  not  daring  to  trust 
my  own.  But  his  brow  was  calm  and  immoveable, 
as  the  coldest  marble.  I  was  fain  to  begin — I  faltered— 
I  mentioned  the  sound,  the  groan — he  awoke,  all  at  once 
then,  as  from  a  trance.  **I  heard  the  same,"  said  he; 
"was  that  all!  We  are  children,  indeed.  Good  night, 

John" 1  obeyed,  like  a  child.     I  went,  and  left  them 

together 1  went  to  my  bed;  but  I  could  not  sleep. — 

All  night  long,  1  heard,   as  in  the  issuing  air,  whispers, 

and  sobbing,  as    of  some  unhappy  creature. Do  not 

laugh  at  me,  Sarah — call  these  things  childish  or  not,  they 
are  very  terrible.  Realities  are  not  more  so?  Who 
does  not  suffer  in  his  dreaming,  more  than  he  could,  were 
he  awake.  Yet  that  is  imaginary.  But,  O!  how  these 
pangs  of  the  imagination,  the  spirit,  how  infinitely,  they 
transcend,  the  gross  corporal  suffering  of  the  body! 
Do  you  believe  in  spirits?  Tell  me,  plainly.  Doctor 
Johnson  did — wiser  men,  and  better  men,  still  do.  The 
belief  is  universal  too,  among  islanders,  holding  no  com- 
munication with  the  rest  of  the  world?  Whence  is  this,  says 
Dr.  Johnson,  too;  "they,  who  deny  it  by  their  words, 
confess  it  by  their  fears." — How  many  serious,  sensible 
persons  are  living  now,  who  do  believe — really  be- 
lieve, that  they  have  seen  a  spirit.  Allow  all  that  you  can 
for  a  weak  imagination — deceit — falsehood,  and  our  love 
of  the  marvellous,  there  are  still  some  things,  at  the  men- 
tion of  which,  the  blood  thrills.  Do  we  not  all  believe 
more  than  we  are  willing  to  confess?  If  not — whence 
the  painful  interest,  with  which  we  sit  and  listen  to  the 
preternatural.  Nay,  whence  the  spirit  that  sets  us  explor- 
ing into  mystery  and  horrour.  If  we  were  sure  that  there  was 
nothing  supernatural  in  either,  we  should  disdain  to  en- 
ter their  dominion.  All  people,  ancient  and  modern,  have 
believed  in  them.  J  need  not  mention  the  witch  of  Endor; 


RANDOLPH.  73 

the  spirit  that  passed  before  him,  the  hair  of  whose  body- 
rose,  and  whose  flesh  crept  thereat;  nor  the  belief  of  the 
Jews,  at  the  time  of  our  Saviour,  that  evil  spirits  inhabited 
the  bodies  of  men,  and  went  forth  at  hib  bidding; — but  I 
must  remind  you  of  the  belief  of  his  own  disciples,  who 
saw  him  after  his  resurection.  They  took  himfor  his  awn 
spirit. 

It  is  no  argument  Sarah,  that,  being  unsubstantial 
creatures,  spirits,  if  they  came  to  us,  would  be  unseen, 
unheard,  and  unfelt. — That  may  all  be,  and  yet  a  spirit 
might  be  as  distinctly  before  us,  as  are  the  images  of  mad- 
ness, or  dreaming.  Nay — do  we  not  often  feel,  what  is 
not — a  ring  upon  the  finger,  after  it  is  gone;  pain  even 
(as  anatomists  inform  us)  in  a  limb  that  we  have  lost?— 
Do  we  not  hear  our  name  called  in  the  woods;  whispers  in 
the  wind?— And  our  sight  and  touch,  how  often  are  they 
deceived  by  optical  delusion,  and  sleight  of  hand? — 
we  learn  to  distrust  our  senses,  after  repeated  deception. 
Where  then  is  there  any  difficulty  in  supposing,  that  a 
spirit  may  be  manifest  to  us,  by  some  correspondent 
deception?  Sarah  1  feel  strangely  solemn,  as  I  write  this 
— I  feel  as  if  I  were  appointed  to  plead  it  as  a  matter  of 
truth  and  soberness;  nay,  is  it  not— in  our  sleep  for  instance? 
And  why  may  not  the  death  of  a  dear  friend,  afar  off,  be 
thus  communicated,  at  the  instant,  to  the  surviver,  if  he 
be  asleep?  and  if  asleep,  why  not  awake?  There  is  no 
greater  difficulty  in  it.  He  may  be  operated  upon,  when 
his  eyes  are  shut,  or  made  to  believe- that  they  are  open. 

My  opinion  is 1  cannot  say  that  it  is  a  belief  yet — 

that  such  things  are.  The  reason,  I  dare  not  tell;  but 
sonlething  has  happened  to  alarm  me— and  greatly,  too. 

Adieu 


SARAH   TO   FRANK. 

My  dear  Cousin, 

Summon  all  your  manhood,    I  have  a  secret  to  com- 
municate; a  matter  of  life  and  death,  to  you,  I  have  made 


74  RANDOLPH. 

a  discovery.  Prepare  yourself,  my  dear,  dear  Frankj— 
imagine  the  most  distressing  humiliation  and  disappoint- 
ment to  a  proud  nature,  a  nature  like  yours, — and  be  a 
man.  Are  you  prepared?  Listen! 

Juliet  never  loved  you.  The  proofs  are  in  my  own  pos- 
session. I  have  written  to  her,  for  her  justification.  In 
my  opinion  of  her  integrity,  and  beauty  of  heart,  I  have 
committed  myself,  all  my  judgment,  and  all  my  experi- 
ence. I  have  been  cruelly  mistaken.  I  have  helped  to 
delude  you,  my  gallant  and  good  cousin;  you,  whom  I  so 
love — but,  no,  no;  I  will  not  weep.  I  loved  Juliet,  Frank; 
—I  loved  her.  You  know  that.  I  loved  her,  with  all 

my  heart  and  soul but — the  thought  chokes  me — if 

she  have  trifled  with  you,  I  have  done  with  her  forever — 
forever  and  ever.  I  may  always  love  her — but  I  shall 
never  esteem  her  again.  I  have  written  to  her — warmly, 
earnestly;  but,  I  believe,  not  angrily; — beseeching  her, 
on  my  knees,  Frank,  and  in  tears — (it  is  no  figure  of 
speech) — literally,  on  my  knees,  and  in  tears,  to  excul- 
pate herself.  I  await  her  answer.  I  can  forgive  her,  if 
she  have  abused  my  love — mocked  at  my  judgment — 

bruised  and  broken — my No,  no! — I  will  not  even 

write  thus  of  her,  till  she  be  proved  guilty,  by  her  own 
sweet  lips.  O,  Juliet!  how  I  have  loved  thee!  Come  to 
me,  dear — come  to  me! — let  us  weep  in  each  other's  arms. 
Restore  thyself  to  my  love  and  admiration,  and  I  declare, 

that  I  will  lie  down  and  die,  contented  and  alone. O, 

Frank,  tomorrow  I  shall  know  the  truth — I  expected  her 
answer  to-day: — yes! — and  when  the  post  arrived,  and 
brought  me  no  letter,  I  felt  relieved  by  the  disappoint- 
ment; and  have  written  to  you,  because  I  cannot,  at  once, 
communicate  the  tremendous  certainty  that  I  expect.— 
She  never  laved  you; — of  that,  there  is  now,  no  longer, 
any  doubt; — of  that,  1  am  certain.  1  only  wait  now,  to 
learn  that  she  has  not  dishonoured  herself.  If  she  have 
wilfully  deceived  thee,  I  shall  never  forgive  her.  I  feel 
it,  here—my  resentments  do  not  easily  change,  much  as 
I  have  prayed  that  they  might;  and,  if  she  have  wilfully 
deceived  thee,  Frank,  thou  most  generous  man,  I  do  fear 
that  there  will  not  be  time  enough  loft  to  me — for  relent- 
ing. Even  now,  my  cousin,  now,  while  I  am  writing  to 


RANDOLPH.  75 

thee,  I  feel  as  if  the  hand  of  death  were  upon  me.     Fare- 
well  O,  Juliet! 

I  wait  her  answer.  In  the  meantime,  he  thou  a  man. 
Awake,  Frank,  awake! — it  will  be  the  better  for  thee. — 
Write  to  me  immediately;  I  care  not  what:  hut  write  to  me. 
Whatever  it  he,  it  will  be  welcome  to  me;  for  it  is  proba- 
ble, very  probable,  that  I  shall  be  on  my  way  to  the  north 
•*-!  hope — never  to  return! O,  Juliet! 

SARAH. 


REPLY    OF   FRANK. 

Wednesday  Night, . 

I  thank  you,  my  noble  cousin,  I  thank  you.  It  is  too 
true.  "She  never  loved  me."  I  have  just  left  her.  My 
hand  is  unsteady.  Enclosed,  is  her  reply  to  you.  She 
was  very  sick — but  I  have  seen  her.  Yes!  1  have  been  at 
her  side.  What  passed,  I  cannot  tell  thee — perhaps  she 
has  communicated  it,  in  her  letter.  If  not,  it  is  a  secret, 
and  shall  die  with  me.  Do  I  feel  any  self-abasement? — 
No!  Do  I  repine?  No,  no!  God  hath  given  me  strength 
to  face  heavier  trials  than  this.  God  hath  dealt  with  me, 
mightily,  before — and  no  mortal  knew  it.  Nay,  at  this 

moment,  I  am  more  composed  than Her  tears — her 

tenderness — her  emotion  at  the  bridge — the  fountain — the 

hill — the  rock — the  stream! O,  who  would  not  have 

been  deceived,  as  I  was. We  had  visited  them  toge- 
ther. I  knew  not  that  they  were  already  dear,  so  dear9 
so  very  dear  to  her: — and  when  I  saw  her  there,  again — 
traced  her  mysterious  rambling  to  the  same  spot — sur- 
prised her,  at  last,  in  confusion  and  tears — O!  how  little 
thought  I,  that  her  trembling— her  speechless  supplica- 
tion— her  shame — were not  for  me! oh!  not  for 

me! 1  cannot  go  on! — I  know  not  what  I  write! 

Thursday  Night, . 

Yes,  cousin — Juliet  never  loved  me!  But  lest  she  may 
have  forborne  to  tell  thee  so,  and  to  justify  herself,  hear 


76  BANDOLPH. 

me  bear  witness  in  her  behalf.     She  never  wilfully  de- 
ceived me.     She  is  the  noblest  and  best  of  all  God's  fea- 
tures.    To  the  last  drop  of  my  heart's  blood — to  the  last 
breath  that  I  draw — I  am  devoted  to  her.     Weak  and 
timid  as  she  appears,  she  is  full  of  sublimity  and  hero- 
ism.    I  hope  that  she  will  tell  thee  all — O,  I  hope  that 
she  will;  but  no — I  need  not  hope  it.     She  will  not. — 
Thy  happiness  is  not  so  mortally  engaged,  as  mine.  But 
take  her  assurance — believe  her — trust  thy  soul  to  her. 
I  know  not  how  thou  hast  been  deceived — but  mine  has 
been  a  delusion  of  my  own.     She  was  innocent,  and  her 
heart  bled,  when  she  saw  it. -But,  farewell.     I  can- 
not go  on.     A  vessel  is  about  to  sail  for  France,  next 
week.  I  have  been  down  to  secure  a  passage;-  -I  am  not 
yet  successful:  but  if  I  should  be,  I  shall  depart.     Let 
us  correspond.     I  cannot  live  here  any  longer.     Ano- 
ther country.. ..another  field. ...occupation,  intense,  inces- 
sant occupation  only.. ..can  save  me  from — — what? 

from  delirium. ...madness....suicide. Tremble,  Sarah, 

tremble.  My  hand  has  been  already  raised!  What  saved 
me?  The  Almighty  struck  it  down!  My  brother  stood 
suddenly  before  me.  Whence  he  came,  I  knew  not.  It 
was  like  an  apparition — we  had  quarrelled — and  have 

been  strangers  for  a  month.     He  bore  a  billet  from 

yes,  I  will  write  her  name  once  more from  JULIET! 

I  copy  it.  The  original  I  will  never  part  with — it  shall 
be  soaked  in  my  heart's  blood  first.  A  moment  later, 
and  this  hand  had  been  stiff!  A  moment  later— oh!  my 
brother!—  my  poor,  generous  brother!— how  have  I 

wronged  thee. Farewell.     He  has  enclosed  a  letter 

also.  I  know  not  what  it  is.  I  care  not.  I  only  know, 
that  I  love  you — all — all ! — with  unspeakable  affec- 
tion. Be  kind  to  her,  Sally — O,  be  kind  to  her!  She 
Vas  never  so  worthy  of  your  love  or  veneration. 

f  Copy  of  the  Note.  J 

My  excellent  Friend, 

As  you  are  about  to  leave  us  for  a  long  time;  and,  as 
it  is  highly  probable  that  we  shall  never  meet  again,  i  n 
this  life,  I  have  taken  the  liberty  to  address  a  few  word  s 


RANDOLPH.  77 

more  to  you,  on  the  melancholy  subject  of  our  last  con- 
versation. I  never  wrote  to  a  man,  before;  and,  I  trust, 
that  you,  who  are  now  master  of  my  motive,  will  not 
misjudge  the  action.  I  am  in  your  power.  I  feel  it,  but 
I  do  not  tremble;  for,  I  am  sure,  that  you  are  generous 
and  noble.  What  was  communicated  to  you,  yesterday, 
I  need  not  repeat,  is  of  a  nature  never  to  be  told,  to  any 
human  being.  This  was  my  injunction,  when  we  part- 
ed; it  was  the  condition,  under  which,  I  committed  my- 
self to  you.  Allow  me,  now,  to  add  a  qualification.  You 
are  at  liberty  to  tell  all  that  I  told  you,  to  whomsoever 
you  may  think  proper,  when  1  am  no  more.  Your  si- 
lence will  not  he  long.  I  do  not  say  this  to  distress  you. 
J  do  not  say  it  with  any  feeling  of  levity,  or  unbelief: — 
ah,  no,  my  friend!  but  in  the  firm  persuasion,  that  our 
good  Father  hath  already  bidden  me  to  the  chambers  of 
death.  It  would  be  weak,  if  not  wicked,  to  pretend  that 
there  is  no  terrour  in  this  feeling.  No,  my  friend,  were 
it  permitted  to  me  to  choose,  I  have  yet  so  much  the  in- 
firmity of  woman  about  me,  that  I  should  cling  to  life; 
but  still,  as  I  am  growing  weaker  and  weaker,  1  feel  that 
all  the  delicate  fibres  of  my  affection  are  gently  and 
slowly  loosening  and  detaching  themselves,  from  the 
things  of  the  earth;  nay,  from  all  that  I  have  most  loved 
here,  and  that  they  are  continually  losing  somewhat  of 
their  vitality  and  attractiveness,—  till  I  am  brought  to 
believe,  now,  that  the  time  will  come — ^and  the  thought 
is  painful) — when  the  tendrils,  that  a  young  heart  puts 
forth  too  early,  and  too  freely  embracing  and  intertwin- 
ing with  all  that  had  warmth  and  affection  in  it,  will 
become  so  deadened  and  seared,  that  they  will  be  insen- 
sible of  the  moment,  the  awful  moment,  when  their  hold 
is  utterly  gone  and  relinquished,  forever  and  ever. 

Heaven  prosper  thee,  my  friend!  Watch  thy  faculties. 
Remember  thine  accountability  to  thy  Father,  in  heaven; 
and  acknowledge  it,  by  thy  life.  Farewell.  While  I 
live,  my  friend,  my  dear  friend,  I  shall  remember  thy 
generosity  and  greatness,  with  the  feeling  of  a  sister. 

JULIET   K.  GBACIE. 

Mr.  Frauds  Omar. 
U 


78  RANDOLPH. 

(JOHN  TO    SARAH — ENCLOSED.) 

O,  Sarah,  what  a  brother  I  have.  How  little  I  have 
known  him.  The  gay,  unthinking  young  man — he  is  a 
hero.  And  Juliet  too,  what  shall  I  say  of  her?  Is  it  not 
strange  that  I  never  suspected  the  depth  and  devotion  of 
Frank's  attachment  to  her?  He  would  never  confess  it; 
and  his  general  hilarity,  his  free  bearing,  before  all  wo- 
men, deceived  me.  I  thought,  and  we  all  thought,  that  he 
was  invulnerable.  Yes — that  man  loved  her; — that  man 
was  worthy  of  her.  What  solemnity,  what  feeling! 
Indeed  cousin,  the  tears,  the  steadiness  of  such  men,  men 

that  are  always  cheerful  and  careless oh,  they  have 

weight,  and'substance  in  them,  like  the  smile  of  a  man 
that  smiles  but  seldom.  I  have  seen  men  shed  tears — 
tears  like  sweat — tears  like  molten  lead — but  never  did 
I  see  such  tears,  as  escaped  from  the  eye -balls  of  my  poor 
brother,  when  I  handed  her  note  to  him. 

"Are  you  prepared," — said  I as  soon  as  I  could 

speak;-— for,  when  I  entered  the  room,  he  was  standing 

with  his  collar  open a no,  no 1  cannot  tell 

thee pay  no  regard  to  what  I  have  said,  but  listen — 

"Are  you  prepared)  brother?"  said  I. 

He  shuddered. 

I  reached  him  the  billet,  saying  emphatically,  "Be 
prepared  for  the  worst." 

"lam,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  that  went  to  my  heart.  I 
thought  that  I  should  never  be  able  to  speak  again.  At 
this  moment,  he  shut  his  eyes,  two  or  three  times,  quickly; 

a  dark  spasm  passed  over  his  face ,  and  a  few  drops, 

a  very  few,  fell  upon  his  naked  arm.  He  started — shook 
them  off  as  if  the  skies  had  rained  blood  upon  him; — sat 
down; — read  the  note; — and,  without  uttering  a  single 
word,  wrote  a  brief  reply,  which  he  read  to  me.  I  won- 
dered at  his  composure.  Once,  only  once,  he  faltered, 
like  one  suffocating,  as  he  read  it  to  me;  but  he  instantly 
overcame  it,  and  went  on,  in  a  stern,  deep  voice,  like  one 
reading  his  own  death  warrant — aloud — to  his  mortal  ene- 
my.  O  what  a  heart  he  has! — so  proud,  so  mighty. 

"Why,  really,  it  was  our  notion,  because  he  was  never 
melancholy,  never  absent,  abstracted,  or  thoughtful,  and 


RANDOLPH.  79 

always  full  of  pleasantry,  and  1'rolick,  that  he  had  no 
feeling.  No  feeling!  Heaven! how  we  may  he  mis- 
taken! Never  have  I  seen  a  mortal  man  so  convulsed 

and  shattered  by  humiliation; hut  it  is  over  now,  all 

over.  He  is  a  man  again; — yet,  how  altered!  His  ve- 
ry countenance  immoveable; — his  deportment  like  one, 
who  has  nothing  of  humanity  left  to  him; — no  hope  on 
earth — and  no  wish  for  heaven;  doomed  to  live,  and  die, 
for  them  that  he  cannot  love.  Within  four  hours,  has  this 
change  been  wrought; — four  hours,  and  his  countenance 
is  like  something,  upon  which  a  stern  sculptor  has  been 
at  work,  for  that  time.  It  is  sublime, — and  unchange- 
able, I  am  sure.  He  will  go  to  France,  and,  I  think  it 
probable,  to  the  peninsula;  but  for  which  party  he  will 
pluck  the  sword,  I  cannot  imagine.  He  appears  to  have 
some  scruples  of  conscience  in  the  matter.  Farewell — 
I  hear  him  breathing  frightfully  loud,  in  his  sleep — 1  must 
awaken  him.  ***** 

Wednesday  Morning . 

Ah,  my  poor  brother! — another  escape,  another,  almost 
miraculous.  I  have  just  left  him — I  have  been  with  him 
all  night  long — I  heard  him  breathing  aloud,  and  left  my 
letter  unfinished,  last  night,  to  run  into  his  chamber.  I 
found  him  senseless— black  in  the  face.  It  was  with  the 
greatest  difficulty  that  we  brought  him  to;  but  he  has 
commanded  my  silence;  forbidden  me  to  mention  it,  even 
to  the  physician.  But  how  could  I  obey  him!  I  sent 
for  our  excellent  Doctor.  O,  Sarah — this  is  the  second 
of  these  fits,  within  the  last  twenty-four  hours — the  third 
will  be  fatal my  brother!  my  poor  brother! 

Wednesday 9  3  o'clock,  P.  M. 

He  is  better, — the  vessel  has  gone;  we  shall  have 
him  for  a  few  weeks  longer,  therefore,  if  his  life  be  spared. 
In  the  mean  time,  he  is  resolved.  Nobody, — not  even  his 
brother,  I  find,  is  to  see  the  working  of  his  heart.  He  is 
composed  to-day;  and  there  is  a  great  serenity  in  his 
face,  unlike  anything  that  I  ever  have  seen,  in  a  living 


80  RANDOLPH. 

countenance,  except  in  Molton's,  once  or  twice; — such 
as  I  should  look  for,  in  one  who  had  been  familiar 
with  death — for  a  long,  long  time,  in  his  very  presence 
chamber.  It  rebukes  all  familiarity,  all  sympathy.  I 
dare  not  touch  upon  the  theme.  I  fear  that  it  would  jar 
him  to  dissolution;  but  how  mistaken  1  am.  How  in- 
scrutable is  the  operation  of  such  a  mind,  when  the 
whirlwind  hath  passed  over  it,  and  it  is  literally  upturn- 
ed, with  all  its  riches,  and  mystery,  to  the  light.  He 
speaks  of  her — firmly — unaffectedly; — but  with  a  slight 
compression  of  the  lip — and  a  deep  and  impressive  so- 
lemnity; and  he  no  longer  weeps,  but  he  prays  for  her.— 
I  heard  him  last  night,  when  he  thought  that  1  was 
asleep;  and  I  thought  that  my  heart  would  break.  He 
had  scarcely  strength  enough  to  arise  from  his  bed;  but  he 
did  arise,  nevertheless,  and  poured  out  his  devotion,  with  a 
fervour  and  inwardness,  such  as  I  never  heard,  from  any 
human  being  before.  He  refuses  all  attendance;  and  we 
that  watch  him,  have  to  do  it  by  stealth; — he  spurns  all 
consolation  too,  as  something  idle  and  unnecessary. 

Good  bye enclosed  is  a  letter,  I  think,  in  Juliet*^ 

hand  writing.  Brother,  I  believe,  has  a  page  or  two* 
also  ready  for  you;  and,  if  he  have  strength,  he  will  en- 
close them  both  in  his. 

JOHN  OMAR 


SARAH  TO  PRANK. 

There—no  man  on  earth  is  so  well  entitled  to  the  en- 
closed, as  you.  I  know  not  whom  she  has  so  loved,  but 
I  have  a  fearful,  harrowing  conjecture.  I  am  satisfied  of 
her  principle  and  purity,  and  am  happy.  We  depart  to- 
morrow for  the  north,  and  shall  go  first  to  Niagara.  I 
shall  endeavour  to  write  to  her,  the  dear  sufferer,  on  the 
route,  and  shall  direct,  to  your  care.  One  word  more. 
We  were  both  deluded  by  the  same  appearances.  That 
she  had  loved  some  person,  I  was  sure;  and,  having  no 
suspicion  of  any  other  than  Frank,  except  in  one  case, 
and  for  a  little  time,  although  I  knew  all,  I  supposed,  who 


RANDOLPH.  81 

have  ever  been  suffered  to  approach  her,  I  gradually 
yielded  to  the  belief  that  it  was  he.  What  convinced  me 
was,  that  she  permitted  your  intimacy,  after.  I  thought 
that  she  knew  your  sentiments.  This  was  altogether 
so  contrary  to  her  general  deportment,  that  I  had  no 
longer  any  doubt  on  the  matter.  But  read  her  letter. 
There  is  her  justification.  Who  can  resist  it;  we  have  been 
mistaken,  cruelly,  I  ^admit;  but  whom  or  what  can  we 
blame  for  it?  Your  delicacy,  her  unsuspicious,  kind  na- 
ture, or  my  rash  judgment?  Had  you  brought  her  sooner, 
directly  to  the  point,  we  should  all  have  been  spared  this 
shock;  had  she  been  less  kind,  more  suspicious,  or  more 
vain,  she  would  have  taught  you  with  her  own  lips,  that 
you  had  nothing  to  hope,  without  subjecting  you  to  the 
distress,  that  you  experienced,  when  you  were  rejected; 
and,  had  she  thought  it  possible  that  you  would  suppose 
yourself  to  be  beloved  by  her,  she  would  have  pour- 
ed out  the  last  drop  of  blood  from  her  innocent  heart 
before  she  would  have  permitted  yours  to  ache,  under  the 
delusion.  But,  heaven  be  thanked,  our  eyes  are  open  at 

last,  and  we  have  now,  only  to  tremble  for no,  no, 

I  cannot  tell  thee  that,  I  am  too  hasty  in  my  temper;  and 
must  watch  it;  beside,  they  tell  me,  (my  enemies  to 
be  sure,  but  they  are  the  right  persons  to  go  to,  for  the 
truth,  sometimes)  that  I  am  arrogant,  dictatorial.  I  be- 
lieve them.  I  am  sorry  for  it.  I  will  be  humbler.  I 
have  been  I  fear  under  a  delusion. — I  have  been  persuad- 
ing myself  that  I  was  altogether  a  New  England  girl,  sen- 
sible, firm  and  high,  like  my  mother.  But  I  am  wrong,  I 
was  too  young  when  we  left  New  England,  and  the  south- 
ern air  has  changed  my  original  constitution.  I  do  not 
resemble  my  mother.  O  cousin,  it  makes  me  very  sad 
to  think  of  her,  and  I  really  yearn  to  see  the  places,  and 
breathe  in  the  wind  that  she  was  familiar  with  at  my  age. 
Perhaps  I  may,  after  a  time,  deserve  the  name  that  you 
have  sometimes  given  to  me,  of  the  downright  yankeegirl. 
Farewell,  once  more,  dear  Frank,  farewell;  and  remem- 
ber the  words  of  Juliet,  "think  of  thine  accountability. — 
Show  thy  sense  of  it,  in  thy  life." 

SARAH, 

•:.:J  ?7fd--^,-.     '^ifrv/  c-.Ts-.y.t.-te 

H2 


82  BANDOIPH. 

(JUXIET   TO  SARAH,  ENCLOSED.} 

Ah?  Sarah!— you  have  cut  me  to  the  heart.  I  look 
back,  my  dear,  unkind  as  you  are,  upon  all  .your  past  af- 
fection, and  endeavour  to  forget  that  you  have  doubted 
me:  but  what  shall  I  say  to  you?  how  can  I  defend  myself? 
I  have  only  my  simple  word  to  offer,  and  it  may  be,  that 
my  ^ord  will  be  no  longer  enough  to  satisfy  you.  I 
must  stop — I  cannot  go  on.— 

Evening. 

I  am  much  better,  now,  dear  Sarah;  and  my  heart, 
bleeding  and  exhausted  as  it  is,  hath  forgiven  you.  At 
first,  I  was  unable  to  answer  you,  at  all — or,  even  to 
meditate  upon  the  subject.  Your  anger  was  too  sudden- 
ly announced,  for  my  poor  nerves — it  fell  upon  them, 
like  a  clap  of  thunder.  I  have,  always,  been  accustom- 
ed to  indulgence  and  tenderness,  as  you  know,  my  dear, 
rash  friend;  and,  even  where  affliction  hath,  sometimes, 
laid  her  hand  upon  me,  it  hath  always  been  with  gentle- 
ness. Death  came,  too — but,  there  was  little  terrour  in 
his  aspect; — his  countenance  was  mournful,  and  his  tone, 
like  that  of  a  departed  friendship,  in  our  dreaming,  was 
very  pleasant,  even  while  it  made  me  weep.  Judge, 
then,  how  little  I  was  prepared  for  such  a  letter  as  yours. 
Sarah,  I  do  not  reproach  you;  I  love  you  too  much  for 
that;  but  you  may  believe  me,  when  I  declare,  that,  I 
have  never  suffered  so  rude  a  pang,  since  my  birth,  as 
that  letter  caused  me.  But,  it  has  given  me  courage;  I 
am  not  long  for  this  earth,  my  sweet  friend; — another 
season  of  flowers,  will  find  me,  I  am  sure,  beneath  that 
beautiful  tree,  which  I  chose,  long,  long  since,  for  my 
place  of  rest; — another  year,  and  all  my  infirmities  will 
be  forgotten. — Why  should  F  be  angry,  then?  why  should 
I  forbear  to  do  the  little  good,  that  is  left  to  me?  and  how 
shall  I  best  do  it? 

After  much  reflection,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  com- 
municate a  few  thoughts,  to  my  dear  Sarah;  thoughts  that, 
if  I  had  lived  and  been  happy,  from  my  natural  timidity 
and  unwillingness  to  give  pain,  even  when  my  judgment 
approves  of  it,  she  would  never  have  heard  uttered 


BANDOI/PH,  8$ 

with  my  lips.  But  it  is  better  that  she  should  hear 
them  from  mine,  than  from  the  harsher  ones  of  the 
world. 

Sarah,  you  judge  tor  precipitately.  You  deceive 
yourself;  and  mislead  others.  You  are  kind  of  heart, 
high  of  spirit,  and  truly  pious,*  but  your  piety  goes  for 
nothing*  beloved  Sarah,  where  it  interferes,  directly, 
with  either  your  head  or  heart ....  Your  temper,  too,  is 
violent,  and  unforgiving;  not  implacable,  perhaps,  but 
unforgiving. 

Remember  these  words.  When  I  am  gone,  Sarah,  they 
will  be  found  true.  I  know  that  they  look  unkind;  but, 
they  are  not  so.  I  have  often  observed  these  faults  in 
my  friend.  I  could  recall  many  illustrations;  and  cite 
many  authorities,  among  them  that  best  know  you — but 
I  prefer  dealing  more  plainly.  I  prefer  telling  you,  in 
the  plainest  possible  words,  my  dear  friend,  of  your  be- 
setting sins.  And,  having  done  that  much,  I  will  now  pro- 
ceed, as  well  as — a  trembling  hand — and  eyes  nearly 
blind  with  weeping,  will  permit,  to  answer  your  charges, 
Yes,  Sarah,  I  have  wept;  for  it  is  a  constitutional 
weakness,  of  mine,  to  weep  at  unkindness,  even  when 
assured,  by  my  own  heart,  that  I  do  not  merit  it. 

But  let  me  enter  on  my  defence,  as  patiently  and  del- 
icately as  I  can.  You  have  been  deceived,  you  say.  I 
can  believe  it.  I  know  your  disposition  too  well,  Sarah, 
to  suppose  that  you  would  have  wilfully  contributed  to  the 
distress  of  Mr.  Omar.  But  the  question  still  recurs. 
By  whom  were  you  deceived?  by  what?  Not  by  me. — I 
am  sure  that  you  will  deliberately  acquit  me  of  that.  Not, 
I  hope,  by  any  circumstances,  that  a  little  more  charity, 
(it  is  a  cruel  thing,  perhaps,  to  say  this,  Sarah,  but  it  is 
exactly  what  I  feel,  at  this  moment,)  and  a  little  more 
caution  in  you,  might  not  have  explained,  by  some  other 
hypothesis,  at  least  as  amiable,  as  that  which  was 
adopted  by  you.  Did  I  ever  manifest  aught,  in  word  or 
deed,  Sarah,  before  you,  resembling  love  for  Frank  Omar? 

What,  then,  were  the  facts?  But,  let  me  begin 

with  your  earlier  symptoms  of  precipitation  in  such  mat- 
ters. There  was  poor  William.  What  made  you  ima- 
gine, for  a  time,  that  he  was  the  legitimate  and  chosen 


$4  RANDOLPH. 

lord  of  my  affection?  That  you  did,  there  can  be  no 
doubt,  though  you  may  have  forgotten  it  now*  What 
were  the  facts?  The  chief  one,  I  am  sure,  was,  my  dis- 
tress, my  agony  and  delirium,  at  the  time  of  his  death. 
You  thought,  and  so  did  others,  many  others,  perhaps, 
after  that  mysterious  event,  that  my  heart  was  buried 
with  him.  Did  you  not?  And,  then,  another  suspicion 
arose.  Why  did  you  always  couple  the  expression  of 
your  sympathy  with  me,  with  that  of  hatred  and  detes- 
tation of  his  destroyer.  Nay,  has  not  he,  that  same 
Molton,  has  he  not  been  publickly  called  the  destroy- 
er of  William  and  me?  But  ho\s  of  me?  The  charge  is 
terrible,  let  it  bear  what  countenance  it  may.  It  implies, 
that  I  am  either  base,  or  dying;  dishonoured  by  the  love 
of  him,  that  you  believe  to  be  a  monster  of  perfidy  and 
wickcdness;~-or,  broken  hearted,  as  the  surviver  of  him, 
whom  that  cruel  man  sent,  so  unpreparedly,  to  his  grave. 

On  that  point,  you  were  mistaken — John  was  mis- 
taken; Frank  was  mistaken.  I  never  loved  William,  other 
than  as  I  loved  many,  resembling  him,  in  generosity  and 
goodness. 

The  next  thought,  the  next  Sarah,  was  for  a  moment, 
yet  more  frightful.  You  have  not  forgotten  it; — you  ne- 
ver can  forget  it.  Do  you  remember  my  distress,  my 
humiliation?  And  why  were  you  troubled?  Merely  be- 
cause I  had  known  the  man,  before  he  went  to  Europe. — 
Merely,  because  you  had  heard  of  his  standing  by  me, 
^when  I  was  at  the  instrument,  and  "reading  my  heart, 
with  his  arms  folded."— Was  it  prudent,  dear,  to  infer  so 
much,  from  the  few  incidents  that  came  under  your  obser- 
vation. Suppose  that  we  did  "walk  together?"  You 
knew  that  my  health  demanded  some  such  exercise; — an.d 
who  was  better  qualified  to  beguile  the  way,  than  one, 
whose  extraordinary  mind,  and  settled,  unapproachable 
severity  of  deportment,  left  one  nothing  to  apprehend 

from  his  conversation? But  why  need  I  dwell  on  him. 

You  have  acknowledged  your  errour  there,  and  I  hasten 
to  forget  it. 

But  all  these  things  did  not  teach  you  the  circumspec- 
tion, that  I  have  observed  in  your  character  on  other  oc- 
casions. You  still  believed  that  I  had  laved.  Sarah! — 
I  will  not  deny  it — it  is  a  thought  too  solemn  for  disavow- 


KANDOLPH.  85 

al — too  sweet  for  concealment.  You  were  right — I  have 
loved; — but  further  than  that,  I  cannot  go — not  even  to 
you.  The  object  of  that  love — no,  it  was  not  love! — it 
was  religion,  life,  idolatry; — judge  then  of  its  power  and 
truth;  it  lias  brought  me  to  the  grave. — But  the  beloved 
one,  you  will  never  know.  Perhaps — if  the  bashfulness 
of  my  very  heart  will  permit  it,  perhaps  1  shall  commu- 
nicate it  to  Mr.  Omar; — he  is  to  be  here,  this  evening;  and 
I  am  endeavouring  to  prepare  myself  for  the  interview. 
How  often — O!  how  often!  have  I  hushed  the  thought,  as 
it  arose,  and  I  felt  ray  cheeks  burn  the  while,  that  I  was 
dear  to  that  excellent,  that  noble  young  man.  But  it 
would  come;  itwould,  no  wand  then,  obtrude  itself  upon  me 
when  I  was  all  alone;  and  I  would  determine  to  make  myself 
understood.  But  how  could  I?  His  affection  was  so  delicate, 
so  profound;  there  was,  I  know  not  what,  of  reverence 
and  awe,  that  I  did  not  deserve  to  excite,  and  that  I  won- 
dered to  see  in  him,  about  all  that  he  said  or  did,  when 
I  was  near.  My  friends  observed  it;  1  was  rallied 
about  him;  and,  at  last,  I  determined  to  treat  him  less 
cordially.  It  was  a  vain  determination— he  came — I  re- 
fused to  walk  with  him,  as  usual.  He  was  hurt,  cruelly 
hurt,  at  first,  as  I  perceived;  but  the  next  moment  his  eyes 
lighted  up — and  I  trembled  for  the  inference  that  he 

would  draw. 1  went  out  again  with  him,  rather  than 

be  left  alone  in  his  company,  as  I  should  undoubtedly 
have  been,  for  it  was,  as  you  know,  the  well  meant, 
but  indelicate  practice  of  my  good  aunt,  in  what  she 
thought  her  impenetrable  management  on  such  an 
occasion;  and  rather  than  permit  him  to  believe  that 
I  abstained  from  walking,  for  that  reason,  or  that  I 
felt  less  freedom  than  usual  with  him.  We  visited 
some  spots  that  were  dear  to  me;  he  was  so  silent 
that  I  forgot,  utterly  forgot,  sometimes,  that  he  was  with 
me;  and  when  the  sound  of  his  friendly,  sweet  voice,  awoke 
me  from  my  passionate  reveries,  it  was  only  to 
make  me  ask  my  own  heart  why  I  had  permitted  myself  to 
imagine  so  vain  a  thing,  as  that  he  loved  me,  on  no  bet- 
ter evidence,  than  such  solicitude  and  watchfulness,  as 
this.  We  returned,  my  spirits  were  much  depressed— and, 
for  the  first  time,  I  observed  that  his  hand  shook,  and  his, 
lashes  glittered,  when  we  arrived  at  the  gate,-^He  refuse 


86  RANDOLPH. 

ed  to  go  in.  It  was  unusual  with  him?  but  still  I  thought 
little  more  of  it  until  several  days  had  passed,  arid  the 
looks  and  manner  of  the  family  convinced  me  that  they 
thought  we  had  had  some  quarrel.  I  could  not  well  aban- 
don my  walk.  The  season  was  tempting.  The  snow  had  just 
gone,  and  the  tender  green  earth  was  just  beginning  to 
emit  i  ts  own  peculiar  rich  smell  of  invitation.  I  went 
alone*  I  came  to  the  top  of  the  hill;— it  was  consecrate 

tome—there  was  one  spot one! and,  as  I  leaned 

against  a  slender  tree  there,  and  thought  over  the  days  of 
my  untroubled  innocence,  the  tears  fell,  all  alone  as  I  was, 
like  rain  upon  the  dry  leaves  below.  Once,  I  remember, 
that  I  was  startled,  and  I  concealed  myself,  for  I  thought 
that  some  step  was  approaching.  After  this  I  descended. 
There  was  the  very  rock; — and,  near  it,  rippled  the  cold 

clear  stream,  where no,  no— I  cannot  tell  thee  that. 

I  took  off  my  bonnet,  I  scooped  up  some  water  in  my  palm, 
and  tasted  it,  as  I  would  tears;. — my  eyes  were  turned 
toward  a  distant  opening,  where  I  could  just  distinguish 
a  tree,  beneath  whose  beautiful  branches  I  had  once  set 
and  listened,  till  my  heart  ran  over; — there  was  the  rock 

too — the  turf  seat — the  pure  water — the No,  no! — my 

limbs  were  too  weak  to  support  me,  and  I  was  blind  with 
my  tears.  I  heard  a  rustling  near  me — a  faint  whisper — 
something  touched  me — my  blood  thrilled — at  such  a  mo- 
ment!...hi  such  a  place!. ..0, 1  dared  not  look  up! — I  expect- 
ed to  encounter  the  only  human  being,  whose  presence 
there,  would  not  have  been  profanation.  But  I  did  look 

Hp — it  was  not no,   it  was  not  he — his  portentous 

forehead — Ms  uplifted  eyes  were  afar  off.  No — it  was 
Frank.  I  was  glad  to  meet  him; — ashamed  and  humbled 
as  I  was,  at  being  caught  in  such  a  situation;  I  was  so 
glad  to  feel  him  near  me,  for  it  was  getting  quite  dim  in 
the  wood,  and  there  was  a  long  solitary  road  to  be  tra- 
velled homeward — that  I  believe — I — I  was  more  than 
usually  cordial,  at  least,  I  judged  so,  from  the  change 
that  I  perceived  in  him.  His  dark  eyes  glittered  again; 
and  there  were  instantaneous  changes  in  his  noble  face, 
from  red  to  pale,  and  pale  to  red,  like  the  reflection  of  a 
passing  sunset  over  a  piece  of  statuary.  Indeed  he 
looked  so  handsome,  and  so  happy,  that  I  had  not  the 
heart  to  treat  him  coldly;  and,  if  I  had,  what  should  I 


RANDOLPH.  87 

have  been,  but  a  capricious  girl — -a  child — whose  hu- 
mours were  not  to  be  understood,  even  by  herself?  Sup- 
pose that  he  had  asked  me,  why  I  had  altered  in  my  deport- 
ment?— or,  as  he  once  did? — if  he  had  offended  me?— 
what  could  I  have  said? 

Soon  after  this,  I  thought  yet  more  seriously  of  the  mat- 
ter, and  determined  to  bring  him  to  an  explanation* 
Yet  that  was  not  easily  done.  An  honest  woman,  I 
thought,  would  spare  him  the  humiliation  of  an  avowal. 
True — but  a  modest  one,  would  never  suspect  a  passion, 
till  it  was  declared.  Nay,  is  it  not  a  wise  maxim  to  be- 
lieve all  the  pretensions  of  a  man,  hollow  or  false — or  at 
best,  think  of  friendship  only,  until  they  are  proved  to  be 
more  serious?  You  can  now  judge  of  my  perplexity. 
What  was  I  to  do?  If  I  led  him  to  an  avowal,  it  must  be 
by  encouragement.  But  that  would  have  been  base,  if  I 
did  not,  as  I  certainly  did  not»  mean  to  return  his  love. 

At  last,  our  dear  William  was  slain; — all  the  rest  you 
are  acquainted  with; — my  illness,  distraction, — the  sub- 
sequent kindness  and  attention  of  Mr.  Omar,  until  he  de- 
clared himself.  Then,  and  then  only,  was  it  permitted  to 
me,  to  deal  frankly.  I  did  so.  I  told  him  that  we  must 
part.  This,  I  did,  that  I  might  not,  unnecessarily  wound 
him.  Yet  it  would  have  been  better,  I  now  find,  had  I 
said,  "as  a  friend,  I  shall  always  hold  you  dear; — but  as 
a  husband — I  cannot  think  of  you.  I  do  not  love  you; 
I  cannot  love  you — I  never  have  loved  you." 

Yes,  Sarah! — I  ought  to  have  said  just  those  words; 
but  what  woman  could  have  said  them,  to  such  a  man? 
Ah,  it  is  no  light  matter  for  the  proud  in  heart,  the  good 
and  the  free  spirited,  to  go  with  their  offering  to  the  feet 
of  any  woman*  and  have  it  un-accepted.  I  do  not  say  re- 
jected:— still  less — do  I  say,  trodden  on,  smiled  at,  and 

"scorned ;  as  he  would  have  thought  that  his  was,  had 

1  so  treated  him. 

Need  I  say  more,  Sarah?  Need  I  appeal  to  your 
knowledge  of  my  whole  life?  Do  I  hurt  you,  dear,  by  re- 
fusing to  communicate  the  whole? ah! the  hour 

has  come; — I  hear  his  tread — his  voice he  is  ascend- 
ing the  stairs. Farewell,  for  a  few  hours Fare- 
well!— 


88  ^;f;'  KANDOIPH. 

Eleven  tfclock,  —  _, 

He  is  gone.  It  id  nearly  an  hour  since  he  left  me, 
But  it  is  only  now  that  I  have  strength  enough  to  draw 
myself  to  the  table.  He  is  an  exalted  young  man,  Sarah. 
I  wish  that  1  could  love  him.  It  would  make  me  happy 
to  reward  such  sublime  devotion;  —  and,  were  it  not,  that 
I  judge  of  another,  as  of  myself;  (and  /should  be  unutter- 
ably miserable,  were  one,  that  I  loved,  to  marry  me,  with 
aught  but  such  love  as  I  felt  for  him)  —  were  it  not  for 
that.  I  should  have  been  almost  tempted  to  place  my  hands 
within  his,  while  he  sat  by  me,  —  fallen  upon  his  noble  bo- 
som, and  wept  away  the  little  life  that  I  have  left,  upon  the 
heart  of  a  man  that  truly  loved  me.  1  was  strongly  tempt- 
ed —  moved  —  not  with  compassion  alone,  but  with  pride 
and  ad  miration.  But  1  forbore.  Yet  I  did  as  much.  What 
think  you,  it  was? 

I  communicated  that  to  him,  Sarah,  which  is  unknown, 
and  shall  he,  while  I  have  life  in  me,  to  every  other  mor- 
tal, beneath  the  skies.  I  told  him  all  —  all!  —  my  shame 
and  horrour;  —  my  humiliation,  self  abandonment;  and  — 
yes,  I  told  him  all.  Was  not  that  a  proof  of  my  reverence? 
It  was.  What  I  have  not  dared  to  whisper,  even  in  my 
devotions;  for  God,  I  thought,  must  be  jealous  of  the  de- 
lirious and  passionate  love  that  I  bore  to  one  so  little  like 
Him  -  even  that\\&\&  \  told  Frank  Omar,  without  con- 
cealment, reservation,  or  disguise.  I  am  in  his  power: 
I  glory  in  it. 

And  now,  Sarah,  my  beloved  Sarah,  farewell.  Our 
future  letters,  at  least  on  my  side,  I  am  sure,  will  be 
much  shorter,  than  those  that  we  have  interchanged  hi- 
therto; and  why  should  they  not  be?  My  breath  is  shorter; 
my  slumbers  lighter;  and  my  poor  thin  hands;  alas,  Sarah, 
I  am  very  weak  and  unwilling  to  go,  after  all  —  for  a  tear 
fell  upon  them,  as  I  held  them  up,  and  saw  how  trans- 
parent they  were  —  I  am  unaccountably  affected  at  times; 
the  veins  in  my  forehead  frighten  me.  They  are  much 
more  like  the  delicate,  faint  wandering  of  blue  stains  in  a 
flower  leaf,  as  -  ah  -  1  had  well  nigh  told  his  name 
,—  than  ever  —  and  T  listen  too,  sometimes,  to  my  own 
Yoice,  till  I  tremble  all  over.  It  is  strangely  clear.  — 


39 

Mournful,  it  may  be;  but,  when  it  comes  back  to  me,  as 
it  will  sometimes,  like  a  sweet  bell  tolling  in  the  wind, 
O — I  could  go  and  make  my  own  quiet  grave,  with  my 
own  hands,  just  where  we  parted  last — we! —yes — and 
the  violet  should  spring  up  where  my  first  tears  fell,  when 

no,  no!  no  matter  what — no  matter  \vho.     It  is  all 

over.  And  then,  too,  there  is  an  unnatural  brightness  in 
my  eyes — they  ache  dismally  —and  there  is  a  strange,  un- 
easy throbbing  at  the  ends  of  my  finge  s;  and,  altoge- 
ther, what  with  the  tender  and  incessant  watchfulness, 
the  very  affectionate  and  delicate  attention  that  I  per- 
ceive increasing  every  hour, — with  the  carefulness  to  ex- 
clude every  unpleasant  sight  and  sound,  from  my  dark 
chamber — their  serious  faces — the  solemn  whispering 
that  I  catch  (for  my  hearing  has  become  wonderfully 
acute  of  late)  as  my  good  doctor  is  continually  arrested 
in  the  entry,  by  some  one  or  other  of  the  servants,  or 
visiters;—  I  really  have  enough,  I  think,  to  authorize  my 
saying,  that,  if  you  would  see  me  alive,  my  dear,  excel- 
lent Sarah,  you  will  visit  me  immediately.  If  you  should 
not  be  able,  for  I  know  well  how  you  are  situated,  let  us 
continue  to  correspond.  While  I  have  the  strength  to 
pray,  I  shall  pray  for  you.  Do  the  same  for  me,  dear, 
will  you? 

Stay,  it  is  possible,  dear  Sarah;  and,  perhaps,  I  ought 
to  say,  probable,  that  I  may  never  be  able  to  write  to  thee 
again.  If  so — let  this,  my  parting  advice,  be  remember- 
ed. I  adjure  thee,  solemnly,  as  a  dying  woman,  Sarah, 
to  wear,  hereafter,  a  more  humble  and  unpretending  de- 
portment; for  thy  sake,  dear,  I  beseech  this; — for  thou 
art  altogether  more  amiable,  tender,  and  affectionate, 
than  the  world  believes  thee; —but,  chiefly,  do  I  pray 
it,  for  HIS  sake,  who  hath  endowed  thee  with  such  aston- 
ishing faculties,  and  will  demand  a  sure  and  steadfast, 
and  benignant  application  of  them. Piety,  dear  Sa- 
rah, true  piety,  is  meek  and  lowly;  yet  sound  and  sub- 
stantial. Farewell! Nay — lest  this  tnaij  be  my  last 

letter,  I  will  enclose  a  lock  of  my  hair.  You  once 
thought  it  beautiful.  There  was  another,  one  other, 
whose  opinion  was  even  dearer  to  me  than  thine; — he 
thought  it  beautiful,  too: ah! dear  Sarah — let  it 


90  RANDOLPH. 

not  shock  thee.  The  touch  is  harsh  now,— and  I  have  tried, 
in  vain,  to  restore  the  silkiness  and  lustre — the  truth  must 
be  told — my  hair  is  dead.  Would  he  not  be  shocked  at 
the  sight?  He  would — I  am  sure  that  he  would;  for  even 
I,  fortified  and  prepared  as  I  am,  for  the  reception  of  my 

bridegroom Death even  I,  am  utterly  overcome 

by  a  little  lifeless  hair,  which  I  have  been  twining  here, 
for  some  minutes,  about  my  finger,  to  see  if  artifice  would 
give  to  it  aught  of  that  natural,  undulating  flexure,  which 
was  once  its  beauty  and  vitality — but  no,  no — it  is  dead; 

a  part  of  me  is  already  dead — and  1 1  can  feel  the 

remorseless  influence  coming  nearer  and  nearer,  every 
breath  that  I  draw,  to  the  fountain  of  my  being,  till  all 
that  hath  greenness  about  it,  is  withering;  and  all  that 
hath  moisture,  is  drying  up.  A  little  longer — a  very  little 
longer,  and  thy  poor  troubled  Juliet  will  be  at  rest.  Be 
thou  the  guardian  of  her  fame,  then — thou,  love! — and 
she  will  requite  thee  for  it.  O,  if  it  be  permitted — how 
tenderly  watchful  will  she  then  be  of  thee — and  of  one 
other — whom  heaven,  forever,  and  ever,  bless  and 
protect Farewell,  Sarah,  Farewell! 

Thine,  forever  and  ever, 

JULIET, 


JOHN   OMAR   TO    SARAH   RAMSAY. 

By  heaven,  it  is  true.  It  is  just  as  I  feared.  He,  against 
whom  we  have  plotted — he  whom  we  had  beset,  like  a 
wild  beast,  in  the  toils — he  hath  escaped.  Escaped!  N  ay, 
that  were  a  trifle;  but  we  are  now  in  his  power.  Frank 
has  gone  to  the  south.  I  am  glad  of  it — glad;  for  some 
blood  would  be  spilt,  else.  It  is  just  as  I  feared.  Do  you 
not  tremble,  Sarah?  Or,  do  you  not  anticipate  the  truth? 
Have  you  no  chill? — no  spasm  at  the  heart?  Molton 
is  the  man.  Edward  Molton — he,  whom  I  could  curse! 
I — I— - 1  know  not  what  I  say.  But  he  is  the  man  that 
Juliet  laveS!  How  are  you,  now,  Sarah?  Hardly  had 
we  despatched  the  messenger  to  prevent  your  arrival, 


RANDOLPH.  91 

than  I  discovered  the  true  cause  of  Juliet's  resuscitation. 
Molton  had  seen  her.  It  was  only  for  a  moment; — hut, 
gracious  heaven!  her  whole  body  was  instinct  with  a  new 
spirit.  She  never  appeared  so  touchingly,  so  delicately 
beautiful.  Her  parted  lips — her  innocent,  clear  eyes—- 
her sweet  face,  blushing  through  her  tears — her  agita- 
tion— oh!  I  could  have  fallen  on  my  face,  before  her — 

Yet,  how  did  he  behave? Listen.  It  was  described 

to  me,  by  Frederica;  but  whether  she  suspected  the  truth, 
or  not,  it  were  impossible  to  say.  She  is  too  generous, 
however,  to  betray  it,  even  if  she  did.  And  you,  my 
dear  cousin,  you  will  guard  it,  as  your  own  honour.— 
What  an  unaccountable  creature  he  is — how  immovea- 
ble — not  a  tear — not  one — yet  his  chest  heaved — and  the 
blood  settled  in  his  eyes — and  he  staggered,  when  he 
touched  her  hand — yet,  not  a  word — not  a  look — not  a 
gesture — betrayed  him.  Once,  while  she  was  speaking 
to  him,  with  that  serious  gentleness  of  her's,  he  held  his 
breath  so  long,  said  Frederica,  that  I  thought  he  would 
never  breathe  again. 

He.  stood  before  her,  as  she  sat  looking  Out  of  the  win- 
dow, like  an  apparition — uncovered — his  eyes  cast  dewn, 
and  his  hair  strangely  disordered. 

She  lifted  her  eyes — a  faint  cry  escaped  her — and  she 
would  have  fallen,  but  for  his  encircling  arms.  Was  she 
sensible  of  the  touch?  Her  colour  came  and  went,  rapid- 
ly;— and,  while  his  head  was  turned  away,  and  the  big 
sweat  stood  upon  his  lips,  his  very  lips,  Frederica  says, 
that  she  saw  Juliet  open  her  eyes,  with  an  expression  so 

tender  and  happy,  that She  stopped  there.  She 

was  unwilling  to  betray  her  own  opinion.  They  con- 
versed for  a  few  moments;  and  he  appointed  another 
hour  to  see  her,  when  I  am  to  be  there,  saying,  as  he  de- 
parted, says  Frederica,  that  "there  was  no  hope  for  either." 
What  did  he  mean?  I  know  not,  but  I  am  determined 
to  be  present,  and  understand  the  reason  of  his  calling. 
Has  he  come  to  be  forgiven  for  the — murder,  shall  I  call 
it? — no! — it  may  not  be  the  murder — of  William?  Or  is  it 
i — my  hand  shakes  with  the  thought — is  it  to  disquiet  a 
saint,  in  her  last  moments,  with  the  renufcibrance  of 
something,  I  know  not  what,  but  something,  I  am  sure5 


92  KANDCTLPM. 

of  tremendous  emphasis,  in  her  recollection  of  the  past? 
Adieu,  till  the  interview  is  over! 

Evening. 

1  have  just  left  Juliet.  She  is  inconceivably  better^ 
but  this  often  happens  in  the  consumption.  Hectick  and 
delirium — delusion  and  brightness — are  our  ministering 
spirits,  then.  And  we,  perhaps,  are  never  nearer  our 
utter  extinction,  than  when  our  eyes  flame  brightest,  and 
our  garlands  emit  the  most  of  perfume.  What  an  inex- 
plicable creature  is  he! — and  she  too! — she  is,  alike,  inca- 
pable of  being  understood.  Where  is  her  dread,  now, 
of  Molton?  Why  is  he  admitted?  Does  not  her  aunt 
remember  him? — detest  him?  Or,  is  it  only  a  last  in- 
dulgence to  the  dying  girl?  Really,  I  wish  that  you  were 
here;  and  I  have  half  a  mind  to  countermand  the  courier, 
notwithstanding  your  necessities,  and  the  order  of  Ju-» 

liet. But  stay — I  am  summoned.     He  is  coming  up 

the  avenue^  and  I  would  be  there  to  see  the  meeting. 

Twelve  o'clock. 

He  has  gone — gone! — and  poor  Juliet — alas! — I  am 

in  greater  perplexity  and  consternation,  than  ever? 

What  has  he  done?     What  said  to  her?     I  heard  all— 

saw  all ! But  there  was  some  other  meaning  in  it 

than  what  I  saw! — Else,  why  was  she  so  affected? — b~ 
his  first  appearance,  I  mean;  for  she  was  calm,  beauti- 
fully calm,  after  they  had  been  alone.  But  that  was  th 

result Perhaps  you  can  explain  it.    It  is  all  i 

mystery  to  me. 

(A  servant  has  just  entered  to  say,  that  Juliet  is  in  a, 
sweet  sleep.  Thank  God!  thank  God!) 

Listen,  then,  to  what  I  saw.  I  can  see  them  yet — hear 
their  voices — her's,  clear,  and  soft,  and  timid — his, 
deep  and  inward,  as  if  his  spirit  were  speaking,  and 
not  his  lips. 

He  entered.  He  was,  evidently,  prepared  and  sus- 
tained by  some  preternatural  effort.  He  came — and  his 
presence  was  unlike  that  of  humanity.  Was  he  death- 
struck?  I  know  not— butjiis  face  was  pallid — pallidl— 
it  was  cadaverous!— quiet  and  established. 


RANDOLPH.  93 

He  went  directly  up  to  poor  Juliet,  wtiose  hand  hung 
over  the  pillow,  against  which  she  was  leaning;  and,  it 
was  evident  that  she  had  not  the  power  to  lift  it,  for  the 
effort  was  made: — it  moved,  but  fell  down  again,  like 
something  lifeless,  while  she  coloured,  faintly.  He  took 
her  hands,  both  of  them,  in  his,  with  an  air — ah!  he  must 
have  been  dear  to  her  once,  and  must  have  known  it — 
"Assure  yourself,  Miss  Grade,  my  sweet  friend,"  said 
he,  in  a  firm  voice,  "that" 

She  slowly  lifted  her  meek  eyes.  He  could  not  well 
bear  it;  for  his  manner  was  more  hurried  and  tender,  as 
he  added — "Forgive  me.  I  would  have  said  Juliet,  had 
I  not  feared  to  distress  you."  Then,  glancing  his  eye 
at  Jane  and  myself,  he  added,  "I  feared,  too,  that  it  might 
be  misunderstood." 

She  motioned,  faintly,  to  him,  to  sit  down;  for,  I  had 
observed  that  her  eyes,  surcharged  with  moisture  and 
glossiness,  were  perpetually  stealing  upward,  as  if  in 
meditation,  timid  and  wavering  religious  meditation, 
upon  his  face,  while  he  stood  over  heif.  He  did  not  ob- 
serve it;  or,  at  least,  he  did  not  betray  his  observation. 

He  obeyed-  —he  sat  down — he  still  held  her  hand — he 
looked  at  it — his  lips  moved,  as  if  he  were  talking  to  him- 
self— a  slight,  tremulous  motion,  I  thought,  passed  over 
his  whole  frame— it  might  have  been  mine  own  agitation, 
however,  or  that  of  the  light;  for  my  hand  was  resting 
on  the  table,  and  it  shook.  His  face  was  solemn,  tremen- 
dously solemn  and  desolate; — and  once,  when  he  drew  a 
long  breath,  her  hair  stirred  with  it,  and  the  strange 
spirituality  of  her  form,  awoke.  I  could  have  told  her 
thought; — his,  I  am  sure  that  I  could.  She  was  always 
transparent; — but  he, — his  countenance  was  marble  and 
death— 'forever  and  ever — except  at  this  moment.  He 
put  her  hand  to  his  side — her  eyes  were  away — but  I 
could  perceive  the  same  bashful  consciousness  under  her 
thick  laslies.  It  was  done  with  an  expression  of  pain, 
and  soreness;  and,  from  the  look  of  his  unchangeable 
eye,  as  it  wandered  over  her  temples,  her  hands,  her  at- 
tenuated form,  at  the  same  moment,  I  could  have  sworn, 
almost,  that  he  was  deliberately  comparing  'MS  own/ 
situation  with  her's.  What  was  the  result?  He  re- 
12 


.«  *'--.  r. 

94  KANDOXPH. 

placed  her  hands — they  were  meekly  crossed  upon  her 
Jap; — and  a  smile,  yes,  a  smile,  the  second  that  I  ever  saw, 
of  the  heart,  in  Molton's  face,  played  all  over  it; — and 
the  effect  of  that  smile,  so  sweet,  so  melancholy,  was 
such — you  will  hardly  believe  it — that  my  own  eyes 
ach^d.  'I  put  up  my  hand  to  them — they  were  running 
over? — I  looked  at  Jane — the  tears  were  there,  too; — at 
Frederick — she  was  sobhing! 

"No — no!"  said  Juliet,  "I  cannot  bear  this! Fred- 
erica,  dear,  reach  me  that  book,  and  the  little  packet, 

ther,e:    Take  them,  Mr. take  them,  Edward.     But 

do  not  open  them,  yet.     There  will  be  a  time" (The 

smile  returned,  and  he  put  his  lips  to  her  hand.  Why 
cid  she  permit  if?  Who  ever  dared  as  much  before? — 
Yet  she,  sweet  saint,  as  if  utterly  forgetful  of  our  pre- 
sence, appeared  to  receive  it  as  no  profanation;  but,  ra- 
ther, as  her  lawful  and  accustomed  homage.)  "When  I 
am  no  more,  Edward"— —(I  looked  at  him,  as  she  said 
this; — there  was  no  change,  nor  shadow  of  change,  in 
his  face;  but  his  eyes  were  nearly  shut — and  his  hands 
were  locked,  in"  the  attitude  of  one  listening  to  strange 
musick,  issuing  from  his  own  heart.) — "then,  you  are  at 
liberty  to  open  it,"  she  added. 

"And  not  till  then,  Juliet.5* 

"No*" 

"But,  what  if  doatfi  should  be  nearer  to  me — than"— 

"What!"  cried  Juliet,  in  a  tone  of  horrour — alarmed, 
it  was  evident,  more  by  the  look  with  which  the  words 

were  spoken,  than  by  the  words  themselves "What 

mean  ywi,  Edward®! 

"I  mean — I  know  not  what;*— but  it  might  happen, 
dear  Juliet — it  might  happen,  that  one  could  foresee  his 
own  death." 

Juliet  raised  her  eyes  in  terrour — he  was  leaning  to- 
ward her; — and  I  could  see  the  blood  rushing,  hither  and 
thither,  about  his  temples,  just  as  if  forced  there,  by  some 
fearful  operation  of  the  heart;  as  if  it  were  pressed  to 
suffocation,  and  discharging  all  its  life,  at  once.  She  put 
her  hand  upon  his  forehead — "Edward  Molton,"  said 
she,  in  a  tone  so  sweet,  so  solemn — oh!  I  never  heard 
aught  that  resembled  it,  before— "Beware!— beware!— 


BANDO1PH*  95 

there  is  One  who  can  read  thy  heart,  and  will  requite 
thee  for  the  thought  that  was  there.  Look  up,  Edward! 
I  forgive  thee!  It  may  be,  as  thou  sayest,  my  Mend, 

that that Nay,  I  need  not  repeat  it;  but  if  it 

should  be — which  God,  in  his  mercy,  avert — then — then, 
Edward,  the  seal  may  be  broken." 

Molton  arose.  He  took  the  papers — the  book; — but  his 
face  was  very  stern,  then — and  there  was  one  moment,  a 
single  moment,  when  I  thought  that  he  was  about  to  dash 
the  book  upon  the  floor — his  eyes  lightened — but  it  was 
all  t)ver,  instantly; — and  he  stood  high  and  dark  before 
her,  as  at  first,  and  full  of  tremendous  repose. 

"I  must  leave  you,"  he  said,  in  a  firm  voice;  "and,  from 
the  situation  in  which  I  now  see  you,  it  Is  probable  that 

we  shall  never  meet  again — on  this  earth,  Juliet; but 

but we  shall  meet,  somewhere,  sooner  than  they 

expect.  Bear  up,  Juliet — the  hour  is  approaching.  Go 
blithely  to  thy  chamber.  I  shall  to  mine.  It  has  no 
terrour  for  me.  The  time  wrill  come — it  will — when  the 

horrible  mystery  shall  be  exposed  to  thee; — when 

No!  I  must  not  trouble  thee,  woman! -Juliet! — my 

friend! — I  must  not  trouble  thee,  at  such  an  hour!  Thou 
art  prepared,  I  believe.  Be  so.— It  befits  thee  well. — 
Expect  nothing — hope  for  nothing.  Death  is  near  thee* 
and  they  that  would  deceive  thee,  are  crueller  than  death." 

(I  would  have  interfered  here^but  Juliet  forbade 
it; — and  Molton  darkened  all  over,  like  a  sorcerer,  whose 
untimely  spell  is  interrupted  and  broken,  at  the  mo- 
ment of  its  consummation.) 

"No,  Juliet! — there  is  no  help  for^thee.  All  that  re- 
mains for  thee,  now,  is  to  die — nobly  and  bravely.  Lin- 
ger a  little  while,  and  I  shall  set  thee  an  example— ,ah* 
do  not  mistake  me.  I  shall  not  do  what  thou  dreadest 
Look  up! — look  up,  thou  broken  hearted  woman!— and 
believe  m« — me; — hear  me  say,  that  the  time  shall  come, 
when  all  that  troubled  thee,  will  have  passed  away;  when 
all  the  darkness  and  mystery,  which  I  would  not,  even  to 
thy  solicitation,  put  away,  at  our  last  interview,  shall 
be  no  more; — andyet--believeme — Edward  Molton  will 
never  repeat  that,  which  thy  poor  heart  now  thrills  at 
the  recollection  of.— —Mourner!— Juliet! — farewell  I" 


96 


Juliet  gasped  for  breath  —  extended  her  hand  to  him, 
with  a  smile  of  unutterable  thankfulness.  "Then,"  said 
she,  "I  forgive  thee.  Thou  art  still  the  man,  that  I  took 
thee  for.  Farewell—  farewell,  Edward!  Repent,  and 
be  forgiven!" 

He  dropped  upon  his  knees  —  he  pressed  his  lips  to  her 
hand  —  not,  oh  no!  not  with  the  look  or  attitude  of  love—- 
no! —  but  with  something  holier,  higher,  purer  —  it  was 
that  of  adoration  —  that,  with  which  a  martyr  bows  upon 
the  Bible,  for  the  last  time. 

He  was  at  the  door.  Her  eyes  were  shut  —  her  deli- 
cate lips  juvst  open  —  and  he  paused;  for,  like  us,  it  was 
probable  that  he  thought  her  patient  spirit  had  flown!  — 
He  paused  —  she  raised  her  hand  lightly,  with  a  motion 
that  he  understood  —  he!  —  for,  in  an  instant,  he  was  ano- 
ther man;  -  the  tears  rushed  to  his  eyes  —  and  he  shiv- 
ered from  head  to  foot  —  as  if  his  soul  were  rending  it- 
self away  from  her  frail  tenement. 

Leave  us!  —  leave  us,  alone!"  said  he,  hurriedly;  —  "it 
is  only  for  a  moment." 

We  glanced  at  Juliet  —  she  signified  her  assent  —  and 
we  departed.  I  was  the  last  out;  and,  as  I  shut  the  door, 
I  heard  him  say,  "Are  the  letters  all  here?"  —  and  she 
answered,  inarticulately,  "Yes!  —  it  was  for  that,  that  I 
sent  for  you  —  it  was  dangerous."  He  knelt  by  her,  and, 
I  thought,  but  I  did  not.  turn  fully  round  to  look,  that  his 
arms  embraced  her,  and  that  her  head  was  upon  his 
shoulder. 

The  conversation  was  low,  and  interrupted,  I  thought, 
by  deep  emotion,  silence,  and  sobbing;  and  Jane  says 
that  she  heard  your  name  pronounced,  more  than  once, 
in  a  tone  of  great  earnestness,  like  displeasure:  -  nay, 
though  I  did  not  listen,  I  confess  that  I  thought  the  same, 
once,  and  I  distinctly  heard  Juliet  say,  that  "She  (but 
whether  she  were  then  speaking  of  you,  or  not,  I  cannot 
tell,)  had  a  noble  heart,  and  a  tender  one  —  capable  of 
the  most  devout  affection,  and  the  most  sublime  sacrifice. 

Soon  after  this,  Molton  opened  the  door,  and  came 
out,  and  passed  us,  without  appearing  to  see  us  —  the 
same  imperturbable  solemnity  in  his  face  —  the  same  re- 
gal carriage  and  movement  of  body. 


RANDOLPH.  9f 

When  we  re-entered,  we  were  both  struck  with  an  es- 
sential alteration  in  the  countenance  of  Juliet.  There 
was  something  in  it — something  that  I  never  saw  before, 
there; — something  that  I  should  have  called  pride,  re- 
sentment, or  indignation,  in  any  other  face;  but  I  feared 
to  think  it  so  in  her's.  There  was  the  appearance,  too, 
and  Jane  called  my  attention  to  it,  secretly;  and  when  I 
looked,  I  observed  that  Juliet's  eyes  followed  me — and, 
I  thought,  that  she  coloured  and  trembled — there  was 
an  appearance,  too,  in  the  ashes,  as  if  paper,  and  a  con- 
siderable quantity  too,  had  just  been  burnt  there: — nay, 
there  were  the  leaves  of  a  book,  or  my  fancy  deceived 
me,  plainly  to  be  seen,  for  some  minutes  after  we  enter- 
ed. 

But,  from  this  moment,  Juliet's  whole  manner  was 
changed.  She  was  more  serious — less  pensive:  more 
heroick  and  calm; — and  I  was  with  her  for  a  whole 
hour. 

What  am  I  to  think  of  this?  Can  we  doubt  any  long- 
tr  who  is  the  lord  of  her  heart?  It  must  be  Melton— it 
is.  And  yet,  we  have  been  deceived  before.  Does  she 
not  know  who  his  hnlf  sister  is? — what  her  character  is? — 
and  that  he  is,  really  and  truly,  the  murderer  of  Wil- 
liam?— that  William  whom  she  so  loved?  Let  it  have 
been  done  fairly,  still  it  was  murder  in  this  terrible  Mol- 
ton; for  William  was  a  child,  a  mere  child  to  him.  He 
could  not  have  injured  a  hair  of  Molton's  head.  Then 
why  did  he  slay  him?  Ah!  Sarah!  it  may  be,  that  I  have 
thought  too  well  of  Molton.  What!— am  I  so  base?— 
this  deadly  infusion  of  envy  and  jealousy! — O,  forgive 
me,  heaven!— has  this  been  able,  so  soon  and  so  entirely,, 
to  corrupt  my  heart?  What!  shall  I  doubt  Molton  wow, 
merely  because  I  think  Juliet  loves  him,  when  I  have* 
withstood  all  else? — prejudice,  slander,  and  the  influence 
of  thy  mortal  hatred,  Sarah?  0!  man,  man!  how  base 
and  earthly  are  thy  judgments!  No,  Sarah-^-I  will  not 
desert  this  man.  But  give  me  to  see  his  guilt — make  it 
plain— -and  I  will  pursue  him  to  the  end  of  the  earth. — 
Yet,  what  is  this,  but  seeking  to  gratify  my  own  envy 
again?  Ah!  Sarah!  I  was  not  always  so  inveterate.-*-- 
There  is  some  distemper  in  my  heart — some  disorder*-*! 


98  RANDOLPH. 

know  not  what; — but  it  has  changed  my  nature.    All  is 

greenness  and  bitterness,  where  once hell  and  fury! 

should  it  not  be  green  and  bitter? — has  not  he  pluck- 
ed out,  by  the  roots,  the  blessed  image,  that  death  could 
not  have  defaced  there — dissolution  and  rottenness  could 
not  have  corrupted!  O,  shame!  shame!— these  transports, 
how  unworthy  they  are  of  me!  No. — I  will  be  his  friend 
yet,  in  spite  of  my  hatred  and  fear  of  him.  1  will  go  this 
day,  this  hour,  and  visit  him  as  usual; — and  wo  to  the 
hand  that  assails  him,  without  the  majesty  of  the  law—- 
the law! — ha! that  reminds  me  of  the  two  strangers 

the it  may  be .     But,  tell  me,  Sarah,  tell 

me.  Can  it  be  possible  that  Juliet  loved  Molton?  Did 
he  love  her?  *  If  so,  how  could  he  have  loved  another? — 
No! — he  could  not.  He  never  loved  her,  then.  But  did 
she  love  him?  Sarah,  I  dare  not  answer  that  question. 
I  feel  my  bones  quiver  in  their  sockets.  Can  she  have 
loved  him? — and  does  she,  after  all?  She  knows  that 
Helen  is  with  him — I  am  sure  of  it.  Can  her  spirit  en- 
dure such  contamination?~-caw  it? — No!  the  touch  of  im- 
purity would  be  death  to  it!  Good  night! 

Morning.— 

1  have  kept  this  unsealed  to  the  last  moment.  Juliet 
is  perceptibly  better.  It  is  pride; — I  am  not  afraid  to 
say  so,  to-day; — It  is  pride — I  am  sure  of  it.  She  sits 
more  erect; — there  is  less  of  that  tenderness,  that  thrill- 
ing tenderness,  in  her  tone — less  languor  and  melan- 
choly in  her  eyes; — there  is  even  a  dash  of  serious 
haughtiness.  Heaven  be  praised!  Do  not  inform  Frank 
of  this — do  not,  I  beseech  you. 

Jldieu, 

JOHN. 


SARAH  RAMSAY  TO  JOHN  OMAR. 

I  know  not  what  to  believe.  She  is  too  exalted,  too 
pure  of  heart,  I  am  sure,  to  permit  any  affection,  there, 
for  the  dissolute,  however  specious  they  may  be.  But 
Molton — the  remorseless  villain;  0,  beware  of  him.-' 


RANDOLPH.  99 

What  tremendous  apathy,  is  this?    What  unspeakable 
infatuation?     Will  you  permit  the  serpent  to  enfold  you 
all,— I  know  not  how  to  express  myself.    I  am  troubled, 
almost  to  suffocation  and  blindness,  at  the,  thought  of  him. 
Would,  that  I  had  less  sensibility;  yet,  why  should  I 
wish  it?     Would  we  pray  for  torpor,  numbness,  to  escape 
the  pains  that  accompany  sensation?     Are  not  even  these 
pangs,  these  palpitations,  these  tears,  these  tears  of 
scalding  humiliation  and  self-abasement,  which  Juliet, 
the  meekest  creature  upon  this  earth,  has  wrung  from 
me,  by  her  reproaches, — no,  not  by  her  reproaches,  but 
by    the    kindest  admonition,  in  the  world;  are  they 
not  better  than  insensibility?     They  are.     We  have  our 
sense  of  suffering,  and  joy;  of  agony,  and  rapture;  most 
exquisitely  proportioned  to  each  other.     He,  who  has 
the  least  sensibility  to  pain,  has  the  least  to  pleasure. 
Let  us  not  lament,  therefore,  that  our  senses  are  not 
sealed  up.  our  touch  deadened,  our  ears  stopped,  our  eyes 
shut,  to  the  beauty  and  the  harmony  that  surround  us; 
because  it  may  sometimes  happen  that,  that  harmony  is 
too  loud  and  frightful,  or  that  beauty,  too  terrible.    No;  if 
insensibility  were  better  than  this  nature,  which  is  so 
delicately  interwoven  with  all  the  crimson  labyrinth  of 
our  blood,  the  ten  thousand  delicate  fibres  of  our  being, 
tangled,  as  they  seem,  wandering  as  they  appear,  with- 
out order,  through  all  their  offices  and  appointments;  thril- 
ling, to  agony,  when  the  finger  of  the  Almighty  hath 
touched  one  of  them,  in  rebuke — sending  his  electricity 
through  the  \*hole  web: — no,  if  insensibility  were  better 
than  this  state  of  exquisite  being,  death  were  the  consum- 
mation of  happiness.    But  what  have  I  done? — fallen  into 
the  same  errour,  which  I  have  so  often  reprimanded  in 
you.. ..fine  writing.... but  no  matter....it  came,  spontane- 
ously from  the  heart;  unstudied,  unpremeditated — and,  I 
trust,  will  so  appear. 

But,  let  me  return,  for-  a  moment,  to  Molton.  My 
suspicions  are  all  awake  again.  I  have  just  arrived  at  the 
whole  truth  of  an  affair,  which  I  once  hinted  at,  in  one  of 
'my  earlier  letters.  I  am  now  mistress  of  the  whole,  and  I 
give  you  leave  to  take  what  steps  you  please,  for  your  own 
satisfaction,  in  the  case.  If  the  stories  be,  as  I  have  no 


100  BANDOLPH. 

reason  to  doubt  that  they  are,  true,  they,  alone,  will  be 
sufficient  to  establish  the  deliberate  and  settled  wickedness 
of  Molton's  character. — They  are  as  follows.  Let  him 
reconcile  them,  if  he  can,  to  aught  that  is  less  than  devil- 
ish. The  disclosure  is  confidential  from  me.  A  strange 
accident  brought  me  acquainted  with  the  whole.  I  believe 
it,  and,  the  only  anxiety  I  have,  now,  is,  to  discover  my 
anonymous  correspondent,  and  ascertain  in  what  coun- 
try Molton  was  born.  I  used  to  think  him  an  American; 
but  I  have  many  reasons  to  doubt  that,  of  late.  But, 
whoever  it  be,  that  gives  me  the  information,  that  I  now 
have,  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  his  sincerity  and  truth, 
for  1  hold  his  address,  under  seal,  with  permission  to 
open  it,  whenever  Molton  can  be  fairly  confronted  with 
his  accusers. 

When  a  mere  boy,  he  was  surprised,  at  noon  day,  at- 
tempting to  enter  a  lady's  bed  chamber.  She  was  much 
older  than  Molton,  and  knew  so  little  of  him,  that  she 
was  willing  to  believe,  whatever  he  would  say,  in  pallia- 
tion of  his  audacity.  He  told  some  story,  i  know  not 
•what,  to  a  friend  of  tier's,  and  she  affected  to  believe  him; 
but,  it  was  only  affectation.  Her  blood  will  run  cold,  to 
this  hour,  at  the  mention  of  his  name. 

The  next,  is  an  affair,  yet  more  atrocious.  He  was 
deeply  indebted  to  a  family,  every  member  of  which,  had 
loved  him,  almost  to  veneration;  and  trusted  to  him, 
when  he  was  friendless  and  alone.  He  felt  grateful; 
and  they,  who  knew  him,  well,  do  say,  that  he  would 
have  died,  at  one  time,  to  prove  it.  A  beautiful  little 
girl,  a  mere  child,  innocent  and  unsuspicious,— (Cousin, 
1  know  not  what  may  be  thought  of  this  plain  dealing  with 
a  man,  on  such  a  subject;  but  you  know  that  I  ha\e  been 
accustomed,  from  my  earliest  infancy,  under  the  direc- 
tion of  my  departed  mother,  to  think,  and  speak  too,  at 
proper  seasons,  of  many  matters  that  seem  to  be  prohib- 
ited to  the  women  of  the  world.  Yes,  to  them,  that  arc 
to  be  wives  and  mothers,  it  is  forbidden  even  to  think  of 
the  sacredness  and  obligation  of  such  offices!-  —I  have 
been  taught  better.  '  have  been  made  to  understand* 
that  the  duties  of  marriage,  and  the  education  of  children, 
are  things  of  awful  import  and  solemnity;  involving  all 


RANDOLPH.  1€1 

that  is  religious  and  responsibe,  happiness  and  virtue, 
life  and  immortality.  But  the  fashion  of  the  time  is  dif- 
ferent; women  are  mothers,  now.  ere  they  have  thought 
of  infants,  in  any  other  way,  than  that  of  babies  and  dolls. 
Children  are  bearing  children,  educating  children;  and 
boys  are  fathers,  nurturing  spiritualities,  ere  they  have 
Jearnt  the  commonest  principles  of  self  government. 
Cousin,  forgive  me — the  subject  is  one,  that  will  always 
carry  me  away  with  it;  and  i  have  touched  on  it  now, 
that  you  may  not  be  astonished  at  my  using  the  freedom 
that  I  do,  with  a  man,  in  communicating  certain  affairs, 
that  relate  to  the  arch  imposter,  Molton. 

I  was  proceeding  to  mention  his  unspeakble  wicked- 
ness toward  that  child.  She  was  the  pride  and  darling 
of  the  family,  to  whom  he  was  so  deeply  indebted; — and 
the  chief  sustenance  of  a  widowed  mother.  Molton  used 
all  iiis  power  to  corrupt  that  child,  even  in  her  blossom; 
— persevered  for  years,  and  finally  went  so  far  as  to  en- 
ter her  room  at  night.  The  poor  little  creature  was  ter- 
rified almost  out  of  her  senses — shrieked;  and,  in  her  ter- 
rour,  had  so  little  suspicion  of  the  truth,  that  when  she 
encountered  Molton,  as  she  opened  the  door,  she  threw 
herself  inco  his  arms,  for  preservation.  Heaven! — wlrat 
was  his  heart  made  of,  that  it  did'nt  stop  forever  on  the  spot! 

Judge  you,  cousin,  of  that  man's  address.  He  was 
scarcely  suspected,  even  by  the  child.  Nothing  of  his 
whole  life  was  known  to  resemble  it;  and  even  they,  who 
felt  some  suspicion  of  the  truth,  had  not  the  courage  to 
whisper  it  to  their  dearest  friend,  still  less  to  him.  And 
such  was  his  hardihood,  that  he  spoke  of  the  whole  ad- 
venture, as  of  a  dream; — and  with  such  an  air  of  inno- 
cence, that  he  was  never  asked  to  explain,  why  his  door 
was  left,  open,  that  night; — for  he  slept  in  a  room  near 
the  child;  arid  a  servant,  in  passing  by  it,  had  observed 
her  light  flash  in  upon  the  opposite  wall  of  his  chamber; 
stopped,  and  found  Molton's  door  ajar, 

The  third  case  of  this  nature,  now  in  my  possession, 

(but  I  am  assured  that  there  are  many  more) is  the 

following.  He  met  with  a  school  girl  of  high  enthusiasm, 
and  promise.  He  was  kind  and  friendly  to  her,  speak- 
ing freely  to  her,  of  her  inadvertencies,  more  like  a  bro- 
K 


102  RANDOLPH. 

ther,  than  aught  else; — and  this,  it  would  appear,  is  a  com- 
mon artifice  of  his;  for,  to  such  perfection  lias  he  carried  it, 
that,  while  he  censures  and  chides,  there  is  a  deep  flat- 
tery in  his  manner,  which  he  insinuates,  like  a  poison, 
into  the  heart  that  listens  to  him.  All  speak  of  this — and 
all  wonder  how  it  happens,  that  they,  who  are  rebuked 
by  Molton,  often  feel  proud  of  it,  and  colour  with  a  plea- 
surable agitation.  But  I  am  in  no  such  doubt.  They 
arc  oif  their  guard.  Reappears  to  them  so  frank  and 
sincere,  so  incapable  of  flattery,  that  they  rejoice  to  be- 
lieve all  that  he  says.  And  in  all  that  he  proffers  in  the 
way  of  admonition,  there  is  forever  somewhat  which  is 
racy  and  spicy,  somewhat  of  that  which  all  love,  after 
having  once  tasted  it,  as  the  very  aliment  of  their  being. 
Another  cause  may  be.  that  he  never  compliments  one  di- 
rectly, and  as  if  premeditated  ly;  but.  always,  as  if  by  sur- 
prise;— as  if  he  were  taken,  oif  his  guard — and  had  spok- 
en the  whole  truth,  fro^n  his  very  heart,  by  accident, 
without  intending  it.  Again — he  never  pays  the  compli- 
ment of  his  censure,  to  a  fool;  and,  generally,  it  is  ap- 
parent, that,  in  them,  whom  he  most  censures,  he  is  most 
interested.  And  finally,  all  grant  to  him.  a  remarkable 
discrimination.  He  treats  no  two  human  creatures  alike. 
By  his  very  tone,  look,  and  language,  they,  that  know 
him  well,  can  perceive  the  exact  degree  of  estimation,  in 
which  he  holds  all  that  he  has  any  knowledge  of.  I  have 
wandered  again,  cousin;  but,  I  hope,  not  widely  from 
the  subject.  We  will  now  return,  if  you  please. 

After  exciting  some  interest,  it  is  said,  in  the  heart  of 
this  unexperienced  child,  he  went  abroad,  and  did  not  see 
her  again,  until  she  was  engaged  to  be  married,  to  an  ex- 
cellent and  altogether  proper  young  man.  He  then  vis- 
ited her,  again; — used  all  his  art;  attempted  to  poison 
her  affection,  excite  her  distrust,  not  of  her  lover,  for  that 
were  a  vulgar  stratagem,  but  of  herself.  You  smile;  but 
BO  it  was,  and  the  poor  girl  was  seriously  indisposed,  in 
consequence  of  the  agitation,  that  he  kept  her  in,  by  paint- 
ing the  disorder  and  agony  that  would  follow  her  who 
married,  without  a  certainty  that  she  loved.  But  he  fail- 
ed. The  destroyer  was  touched  with  the  spear  of  Ithu- 
rial,  and  he  stood  suddenly,  before  that  innocent  crea- 


RANDOLPH.  103 

tare,  in  all  the  terrour  and  hatefulness  of  his  true  pro- 
portions. 

I  have  finished  for  the  present.  It  matters  little  what 
Molton  may  say  about  all  this;— his  word  will  not  weigh 
witii  me.  There  is  a  deliberate  baseness, — an  essen- 
tial, constitutional  wickedness  in  his  character*  that  would 
neutralize  the  fairest  appearances,  the  most  plausible  tale 
in  his  favour,  were  he  not,  what  I  am  assured  that  he 
has  been,  the  greatest  liar  in  the  world,  .t  is  said,  to 
be  sure,  that  he  is  now  as  remarkable  for  his  scrupulous 
regard  to  truth; — but  t  do  not  believe  it.  A  habit  of 
lying  is  not  so  easily,  nor  so  soon  overcome,  it  is  one  of 
the  most  inveterate  that  can  be  formed;  and  will  always  be 
seen  in  the  shape  of  exaggeration,  concealment,  distor- 
tion, subterfuge,  or  duplicity,  long  and  long  after  it  has 
abandoned  a  more  alarming  countenance.  The  heart 
r  emains  the  same;  and  the  mind  is  doubly  dangerous. 

Tell  our  beloved  Juliet,  that  I  have  cried  over  her  dear 
letter,  and  the  lock  of  hair,  till  my  eyes  are  sore,  and  till 
there  is  a  pulse  all  over  my  body.  Your  last  intelligence  was 
as  welcome  as  unlocked  for.  It  is  possible — possible, 

dear  John,  that; but  no,  I  will  not  indulge  a  hope  so 

desperate.  1  would  have  written  to  her,  but  we  are  to  go 
away  to-day — immediately,  1  find,  instead  of  to-morrow, 
I  shall  write  from  the  first  room  that  I  can  sit  down  in, 
with  any  comfort.  Farewell.  Keep  me  informed  of 
Frank — and  BEWARE  or  MOLTON.  Let  that  ring  in 
your  ears,  night  and  day,. 

The  two  men — take  care  how  you  interfere.  They 
are  ministers,  who  are  not  to  be  thwarted.  Beware! — 
the  blow  is  only  suspended  awhile;— but  it  will  fall — it 
— Be  discreet  and  silent. 

SARAH  RAMSAY. 


JANE  CARTER  TO  MATILDA. 

My  dear  JHunt, 

I  should  not  have  deserved  your  reproaches,  I  am  sure, 
had  I  been  left  to  the  dictates  of  my  own  inclination;  but 


104  EANDOLPH. 

•o  much  sickness,  so  much  mortification  and  disappoint- 
ment; so  much  of,  I  know  not  what,  have  happened,  to  per- 
plex and  thwart  me,  that  I  am  really  sick  at  heart.  O,  I  do 
"wish  you  were  here.  How  incensed  you  would  be!  Juli- 
et is  still  the  only  subject  of  all  the  care,  and  all  the  ten- 
derness of  the  house  and  neighbourhood.  Nothing  but 
"Juliet!  poor  Juliet,"  is  to  be  heard.  If  I  want  any  thing 
done,  the  servant  is  in  her  chamber,  or  watching  at  her 
door.  If  I  send  my  own  girl  on  an  errand,  she  is  sure  to 
loiter;  and,  when  my  patience  is  utterly  exhausted,  and  I 
could  sit  down  and  cry  with  a  good  heart,  home  she  comes 
with  a  malicious  account  of  some  stuff  or  other  that  she 
has  heard  about  the  sick  baby.  Indeed,  aunt,  I  know 
not  what  restrains  me;  but  the  people  here  do  act  so  like 
fools,  that  often  and  often,  I  am  on  the  very  point  of  tell- 
ing them  so,  in  plain  English. 

It  is  just  as  you  said,  after  all.  I  don't  believe  that  the 
child  is  in  any  danger.  To  be  sure,  she  looked  very  pale 
and  thin,  but  she  is  quite  too  etherial  to  perish,  to  die— even 
with  that  most  sentimental  of  all  complaints,  the  con- 
sumption— — -O  no,  it  would  be  quite  too  vulgar  for  Ju- 
liet R.  Gracie  to  die,  outright,  like  a  com  mon  mortal; 
and  it  has  often  puzzled  me,  to  conjecture  how  she  is  to 
be  managed,  when  her  time  comes — will  she  pass  offin  a 
vapour — the  exhalation  of  a  dew-drop — a  tear?  ha!  hal 
ha!  her  lovers,  I  take  it,  would  be  confoundedly  puzzled^ 
since  the  doctrine  of  transmigration  is  done  away  with, 
and  translation,  and  vanishing,  and  transfiguration,  are 
gone  by. — Shall  she  go  like  Numa?—  Elijah?— or  what? 
or  whom? the  fools! 

Indeed  aunt,  1  had  well  nigh  hinted  it  to  her,  in  the 
presence  of  one  of  her  fellows  too,  that  she  had  gone 
quite  far  enough.  The  patient  creature! — What  think 
you  she  did— she  opened  her  languishing  dull  eyes  at  me, 
with  such  a  spiteful  appearance  of  resignation,  1  declare 
that  I  was  ready  to  laugh  in  her  face.  But  what  the 
men  see  in  her,  to  doat  on,  and  fuss  about,  as  they  do, 
I  cannot  imagine.  There  was  your  favorite  Omar,  this 
evening,  on  one  side  of  her,  with  his  mouth  open;  and 
that  precious  devil,  Molton— Lord,  »  can't  help  laugh- 
ing now--to  see  one  of  those  chalk-faced  puppets,  in  such 


RANDOLPH.  10$ 

a  taking,  with  a  fellow,  that  has  debauched  more  women, 
than  any  other  man  of  his  age,  in  America.  She  pretends 
not  to  know  this.  But  ;  know  it*  well; — and  if  John 
Omar  were  not  such  a  fool,  in  this  thing,  I  mean;  for,  in 
other  matters,  he  seems  not  at  all  deficient,  I  would  tell 
him  the  whole  truth— but  I  dare  not.  I  am  afraid  of  him, 
now;  for  he  knows,  by  some  means  or  other,  that  it  was 
by  my  management,  that  Molton  was  twice  admitted. — 
Accursed  folly,  it  was  too,  in  me— the  shock  has  only 
given  new  life  to  her!  But  for  that! — no,  aunt;— let  us 
leave  this  subject,  only  I  did  not  look  for  this  result — I 
confess,  in  her  weak  state. 

I  want  your  advice.  What  is  to  be  done  with  her?  She 
will  get  well  again,  1  am  sure,  if  it  be  only,  saint  as  she 
is,  to  plague  and  torment  me,  into  a  consumption.  Alas 
aunt,  [  know  not  where  to  look,  or  whom  to  call  my 
friend.  All  that  loved  me,  Juliet  has  enticed  away.  I 
am  nothing,  absolutely  nothing  now,  in  the  house  of  my 
own  father.  Nay,  I  had  not  an  evil  spirit;  I  wished  her 
well,  i  am  sure,  till  many  days  of  intolerable  humiliation, 
and  many  and  many  a  night  of  shame  and  sleeplessness; 
till  out  of  them,  a  devil  had  birth.  Sometimes  I  am 
sorry  for  it.  Sometimes,  I  could  lie  down  and  weep 
nay,  go  down  on  my  knees  before  Juliet  her- 
self; and what! 1! 1!- 1  kneel  to  that  child! 

a  pennyless,  wretched,  sick,  helpless  child:  an  orphan,  des- 
titute and  houseless,  but  for  the  foolish  compassion  of  my 

foolish  father! to  her,  who  has  thwarted  all  my 

schemes  of  happiness  in  life — soured  all  hearts  against 
me;  turned  love  into  a  poison,  and  friendship  into  hatred! 
But  for  her,  I  might  have  been  a  wife,  a  mother!—- blessed 
God!  a  mother! — with  my  own  babe,  naked  and  beauti- 
ful, nestling  in  my  bosom;  beloved  and  respected  by  all 
the  world.  But  for  her — /ier/— accursed  be  that  witchery 
which  has  impoisoned  and  alienated  all  that  loved  me — 

but  for  her,  I  might  have  been  the  wife  of thou  know- 

est  whom,  aunt;  but  now,  oh  my  heart  will  burst  and 
shiver  at  the  thought — all  is  not  yet  known — it  may 
be — it  will  be,  perhaps — pity  me  then,  pity  me  aunt, 
if  there  be  any  thing  of  humanity  left  in  thee — yea,  thou 
wilt  pity  me. 

But  for  her,  too,  L  had  been  the  friend,  4he  bosom 


106  RANDOLPH. 

Mend,  of  that  haughty,  cold,  implacable  yankee  girl — 
that  Sarah  Ramsay.  But  what  am  I ,  now?  Shunned,  hated 

not  absolutely,  despised — Oh,  no! — that  they  hav'nt 

the  courage  to  express; — nay,  nor  to  feel.  They  dare  not 
— cannot  despise  me.  Yet  she  pretends  to  piety — she! 
to  piety. 

What  shall  I  do?  Really,  aunt,  there  are  terrible 
thoughts  in  my  heart  at  times.  Come  to  me.  I  never 
wanted  your  assistance  so  much.  This  step-mother  of 
mine  is  a  good  natured  idiot; — doatingly  fond,  as  she  is  of 
her  neice,  she  has  such  a  clumsy  way  of  sho>\  ing  it,  that, 
I  am  sure,  Juliet  is  oftener  distressed  than  relieved,  by  her 
manifestation  of  it. 

Let  us  reason  for  a  moment.  Suppose  Juliet  should 
die.  Then  it  is  highly  probable,  with  my  fortune,  and 
the  remains  of  what,  you  know  to  have  been  a  remarkable 
fine  person,  and  countenance, — that  I  may  regain  the  ele- 
Tation,  which  I  have  lost,  by  the  continual  sickness  of  my 
family,  and  the  perpetual  contrast,  of  my  showy  manner, 
with  the  quiet,  sweet,  obedient,  and  domestick  habit  of 
Juliet.  1  am  not  made  for  the  fire-place.  She  is.  I 
would  to  the  saddle,  if  I  might;  but  ,as  that  would  not  be 
permitted,  in  the  way  I  wish,  in  tilt  or  tournament,— I 
must  abide  by  such  distinction  as  is  accessible  to  me.  If 
I  cannot  command  armies, — I  can  give  laws  to  fashion. 
If  I  cannot  be  the  champion  of  our  rights,  in  the  Senate 
Chamber, — I  can,  in  the  ball  room.  If  I  cannot  cry  to 
horse!  to  horse! — I  can  call  for,  hob  or  nob,  and  "money 
in  both  pockets."  But  suppose  that  she  should  recover. 

This,  I  expect; — not,  because  there  is  any  such  opi- 
nion here;  no — but  simply  because  that  would  be  just  ex- 
actly the  awkwardest,  and  most  unpleasant  thing  in  the 
world  for  me.  For  this  reason,  I  look  upon  it  as  a  mat- 
ter of  certainty.  Well  then,  we  are  to  suppose  that  she 
is  well.  What  will  she  do?  If  she  would  marry—* 
marry  any  body,  I  don't  care  whom — she  might  have  her 
choice  of  all  the  world; — there  would  be  enough  left  for 
me — after  she  was  served.  You  see  how  humble  I  am. 
My  tears  scald  me  while  I  write — but  my  lips  smile — I 
can  feel  them  smile,  as  if  they  were  convulsed  and  writh- 
ing  .  \Vell — if  she  will  marry,  all  will  go  right. 

A  will  live  and  die,  on  the  civilest  terms  in  the  world 


RANDOLPH,  107 

with  her;  send  her  my  cards  regularly;  and  takeher'sin 

return — go  to  her  christenings,  and  let  her  come  to 

no.  the  thought  is  frightful  to  me But  I  will  go  to 

her  funeral,  with  the  best  bred  air  in  the  world. 

But  suppose  that  she  won't  marry.  What  shall  we 
do  then?  You  know  her  art.  Under  that  appearance 
of  meekness  and  gentleness,  she  has  a  devil  of  a  temper, 
when  roused.  Mine,  aunt,  mine  itself,  is  less  terrible. 
I've  seen  it  up  once,  only  once; — her  eyes  flashed  fire,  and 
Molton  stood  quaking  before'her,  as  if  blasted  to  the  ve- 
ry heart,  by  the  brightness  that  issued  from  her.  The 
fool! — she  was  in  his  power — and  he  forbore  to  use  it. 
He  trembled — yea — Ned  Molton,  Ned  Molton  himself, 

trembled  and  wept ah — a  thought  strikes  me.     She 

loves  him  yet.  Juliet,  beware! he  is  no  trifler  a  se- 
cond time.  Yes — aunt — yes! — I  want  none  of  your  coun- 
sel now,  my  mind  is  made  up.  Juliet  shall  marry  some- 
body;— she  shall;  or,  she  shall  go  to  her  grave  dishonoured. 

There ;  have  told  the  secret  now.     The  horrour  with 

which  my  heart  laboured,  is  before  thee.     I  am  tranquil 

now.     Ah! it  grew  suddenly  dark,  just  then — 

and  I  stopped.  Was  the  moon  in  travail,  aunt?  Did 
some  spectre  pass  between  rne,  and  the  light,  just  then? 
Or  was  it — poh,  poh — it  was — it  was  merely  my  own 
blood  that  blinded  me,  as  it  arose  and  boiled — I  feel  it 
retreating  again,  and  my  temples  are  easier,  and  1  see 
perfectly  clear  again,  now. 

Farewell) 

JANE. 


MAD.  MATILDA  TO  JANE. 

••!*•  .      ."    '    •••'!•  '•  ~   ,«}        •     .-.•••     "    <,'*  •'•  '  -vj.}) T-?: 

Jane,  are  you  mad?  What  a  risk  you  have  run!  Your 
letter  came  to  me,  unsealed!  What  miracle  has  preserv- 
ed you,  I  know  not;  but  all  my  examination  satisfies  me, 
that  there  has  been  no  time  here,  for  it  to  be  read  in  the 
office.  Do  you  make  some  inquiries  there.  Do  be  more 
careful.  Your  passions  will  destroy  you.  I  iniist  see 
you — I  must,  you  say.  There  is  a  meaning  in  your  let- 
ter, that  freezes  my  blood.  Beware! — Hold  your  hand. 
Stir  not,  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  'till  I  am  by  your  side. 

*'T 


10S  RANDOLPH. 

You  are  on  a  precipice.    A  single  step  may  shai^r  you, 

everlastingly.     But  stop that  is  dangerous  to  write 

about.  Your  thought,  fairly  carried  into  execution,  may 
prevail.  She  must  be  married.  She  shall  be.  Many 
reasons  conspire  to  render  it  indispensable.  The  expense 
of  her  maintenance — the  sympathy  that  she  excites — the 
necessity  that  there  is,  of  disguising  our  hostility  to- 
ward her; — and  yet,  poor  innocent,  I  could  almost  weep, 
when  I  think  of  her.  But  no,  it  must  not  be.  It  is  too 
late  to  relent,  now.  She  must  be  sacrificed.  She  must; 
for,  if  you  live  together,  Jane,  it  is  in  vain  to  disguise  it; 
she  will  keep  all  the  men,  that  are  worth  a  thought,  in 
a  state  of  perpetual  hope  and  anxiety  about  her;  and  you 
will  be  overlooked,  except,  (where  captiv  ation  is  only 
for  an  hour,)  in  the  fashionable  world. 

Indeed,  the  more  that  I  think  of  it,  the  better  1  am 
pleased.  There  is  a  man,  too,  exactly  in  the  humour,  for 
our  purpose.  Do  you  remember  Grenville?  He  still 
thinks  of  Juliet;  and  you  know  that,  but  for  Molton.  she 
would  probably  have  given  herself  up  to  him.  I  think 
that  i  can  manage  the  matter  here.  I  am  his  confidant; 
and  if  we  can  compel  Juliet  to  marry  him,  what  harm 
will  be  done?  She  will  get  a  tight  young  fellow,  with  a 
plenty  of  cash,  a  good  heart,  and  a  good  profession. 

Yours,  my  dear  niece, 

M . 


P.  S. — Don't  forget  to  seal  your  answer.  O — by  the 
way,  you  are  under  a  mistake;  Miss  Ramsay  is  not  ayan- 
kee  girl.  Sh^  has  only  the  yankee  temper,  with  a  little 
southern  heat,  superadded.  Her  mother,  however,  was 
altogether  a  female  yankee — cold,  insensible,  handsome, 
and  sober. 


EBWARD  MOLTON  TO  GEORGE  STAFFORD. 

I  cannot  reply  to  your  kind  letter  as  it  deserves — for, 
just  at  this  time,  I  happen  to  be  very  busy;  but,  in  a 
brief  way,  I  will  try  to  answer  some  of  yoir  enquiries. 


KANDOLPH.  109 

What  do  I  think  of  our  literary  journals,  authors,  re- 
views, and  editors? — you  say;  and  what  are  they  about? 

In  answer,  I  say,  that  by  and  by,  I  shall  enter  more  ast 
large,  into  their  characters.  At  present,  I  can  only  re- 
lieve you,  by  saying,  in  general  terms,  that  they  are  » 
cowardly,  mercenary  set.  Not  one  in  a  hundred  of  them,, 
has  the  courage  to  take  a  decided  stand,  in  pronouncing 
any  judgment.  They  content  themselves — and  by  they, 
I  mean  now,  such  men  as  "Robert  Walsh,  junior,  Es- 
quire;99 they  content  themselves  in  retailing  the  imported 
literature,  and  the  imported  criticism  too — would  you 
believe  it?  of  your  unprincipled  journals.  Even  he,  who 
has  the  impudence  to  set  himself  up,  as  one  of  the  guar- 
dians of  American  literature,  as  one  of  them,  to  whom  it 
is  authorized  to  look  up  for  countenance  and  protection, 
is  consuming  his  strength,  in  the  manufacture  of  a  oaily 
paper;  and  in  the  monthly  compilation  of  a  museum,  made 
up,  God  help  our  patience!  of  the  refuse  haberdashery  of 
Great  Britain. — O,  that  sucli  men,  with  the  present  ed- 
itor of  the  North  American  Review  at  their  head,  were* 
for  a  little  time,  held  up  to  the  indignant  rebuke  of  the 
American  people,  as  they  deserve!  What  do  they  pre- 
tend to  do?  What  have  they  undertaken?  And  what 
have  they  done?  What  have^ve  permitted  them  to  do? 

Stafford,  my  blood  is  ail  in  a  tingle,  at  the  tljpught  of 

their  presumption,  and  our  abjectness.  I  tremble,  all 
over,  when  I  think  of  what  they  have  dared  to  undertake, 
and  dared,  in  the  desperation  of  their  audacity,- to  do. — 
But,  I  am  ashamed,  and  could  weep,  for  vexation,  to  think 
how  tamely  a  great  people  have  submitted,  to  whatever 
they  have  chosen  to  do,  with  them,  and  for  them.: — 
Robert  Walsh,  for  example,  is  put,  by  his  friends,  in  the 
first  rank  of  native  criticks.  The  others  publish,  what 
they  call  a  North  American  Review.  But  of  whom  do 

they  write — for  whom? Not  of  Americans — not  for 

A-nericans.  They  abound,  chiefly,  in  original  reviews  of 
works  that  are  forgotten,  merely,  because  it  is  the 
fashion  at  Edinburgh,  and  London,  to  deny  our  erudi- 
tion ; — and  to  be  very  pedantick,  where  there  is  the  least 
danger  of  exposure  or  contradiction;  or  ihey,  now  and 
then,  enter  the  lists  with  the  English  and  Scotch  re« 


- 


110  RANDOLPH. 

•viewers,  in  praise  of  some  poem  or  novel  of  the  day — pub 
Hshed  in  your  country,  not  in  ours — which  never  makes 
its  appearance  here,  or  perishes  in  the  first  edition — and 
then  fancy  that  the>  are  establishing  the  reputation  of 
American  literature! — Blockheads — what  care  we  for 
the  present  race  of  English  writers?  Are  our  reviews 
to  be  made  upon  that  side  of  the  atlantic,  and  republished, 
under  the  title  of  Walsh's  Museum? — Or,  as  in  the 
North  American,  are  they  to  be  confined  to  the  works  of 
another  people;  and  now  and  then,  as  it  will  some- 
times happen,  of  a  native  writer,  after  they  have  been 
amazed  at  meeting  with  his  name  in  some  European 
journal.  There  was  Brockden  Brown,  for  example — 
and  the  Federalist.  Our  American  reviewers  took  up 
the  cudgels  in  their  favour,  most  gallantly — but  when? 
how? — when  there  were  no  longer  any  body  to  contra- 
dict them;  when  there  was  nothing  to  apprehend — and 
when  it  would  have  been  infamy,  to  forbear. — Stafford, 
I  am  an  American — I  glory  in  the  name.  Were  I  an 
Englishman,  I  should  glory  in  the  name  of  an  Englishman. 
But  then,  as  now,  I  should  lift  up  my  voice,  in  unquali- 
fied denunciation  of  such  conduct  in  my  countrymen. 
What! — shall  these  men  be  paid,  by  our  best  people,  for 
a  continual  violation  of  their  duty,  their  avowed  duty?— 
Shall  they  be  permitted  to  transgress  forever?  to  set  their 
very  title  page  at  naught?  to  sneak  away  from  all  accoun- 
tability? to  lie  by,  and  cower,  and  skulk,  under  one  pre- 
tence and  another,  when  a  new  American  work  appears? 
to  shuffle  away  from  a  decided  opinion,  on  any  American 
work,  until  the  publick  have  pronounced  their  judgment? 
No  Stafford!  I  say  this — and,  Englishman  as  you  are, 
you  cannot  but  agree  with  me.  I  say  that  it  is  the  duty 
of  an  American  reviewer  to  take  some  notice — long  or 
short — for,  or  against — every  work  that  appears*  If  he 
cannot  do  it  himself — let  him  get  somebody  else —  or 
abandon  the  name  of  an  American  reviewer.  And  I  say 
that,  to  nothing  but  cowardice  or  incapacity,  should  a 
failure  to  do  so,  be  attributed.  Can  you  wonder  at  my 
warmth.  Our  press,  young  as  it  is,  abounds  in  the 
bright  prodigal  issue  of  authors,  that  only  want  to  be 
taken  notice  of,  to  become  competitors  with  the  best  and 


RANDOLPH.  lit 

proudest  of  yours.  You  smile — I  can  forgive  you — for 
one  who  has  been  accustomed,  as  every  American  of  my 
age  has,  for  twenty  years  past,  to  the  more  insulting 
doubt  of  his  own  countrymen,  cannot  be  angry  with  a 
foreigner,  for  doubting  that  we  have  common  sense. 
Take  up  one  of  our  last  numbers  of  the  NORTH  AMKRI- 
CAW — or  the  MUSEUM — or  Port  Folio  —another  paltry 
counterfeit.  Look  at  them.  What  do  you  find  in  them? 
Remember  that  they  are  American  publications,  profess- 
edly written,  or  compiled  by  Americans,  in  the  hope  of 
advancing  the  reputation  of  the  country!  Heaven,  what 
a  bitter  sarcasm  upon  our  quackery  and  pretension;  our 
yankee  tricks — and  all  our  honesty  and  intellect,  are 
the  mere  title  pages.  One,  you  will  find  made  up  from 
Campbell's  cast-off  Magazines — and  the  newspapers  of 
the  day; — another  of  stupid  reviews — stupidly  remodelled 
— the  other,  a  body  of  prize  essays,  written,  one  would 
be  tempted  to  think,  to  prove  to  the  people  abroad,  that, 
barbarians,  as  we  are — we  are  able  to  translate  the  ti- 
tle pages  of  very  learned  works,  in  Italian,  French,  Ger- 
man and  Latin; — but  let  me  explain  myself.  First  you 
come  upon  a  review  of  somebody — an  Italian; — whose 
name  it  may  be,  that  the  editor  of  the  North  American — 
while  upon  his  travels  in  Greece — without  an  allusion  to 
which,  he  cannot  blow  his  nose — happened  to  hear.  The 
title  page,  of  course,  is  given  to  you  in  Italian.  The 
next  will  be  a  mass  of  erudition — having  about  enough 
to  do  with  the  subject,  to  make  you  believe  it  a  transcript 
of  some  student's  common  place  book — diligently  copied, 
and  adroitly  tacked  together — probably  with  a  running 
title  in  German  or  French.  Pshaw T  have  not  pa- 
tience with  such  foppery.  If  we  are  ever  to  obtain  a 
literary  character,  it  must  be  by  a  bold,  high  handed 
carriage  of  ourselves.  The  Scotch  have  been  trodden 
into  coalition— like  muscles  in  the  mud; — and,  after  a 
time,  if  kicks  and  cuffs  won't  do,  we  may  have  the  same 
good  luck. 

But,  by  the  way,  I  would  not  have  you  utterly  mis- 
understand our  literary  character.  The  NORTH  AMERI- 
CAN REVIEW,  as  it  is  now  nailed  (in  derision,  one  would 
think)  is  no  longer  what  it  has  been.  Time  was,  when 


112  BANDOXPH. 

the  hands  of  mighty  men  were  to  be  seen,  even  in  the 
clumsiest  of  its  decorations.  !t  has  been  (if  you  will  al- 
low me  to  amuse  myself  for  a  moment)  a  great  Banking 
House — a  Treasury — where  you  were  sure  to  find  ore, 
and  ingots — and  bars,  though  the  former  might  not  al- 
ways have  been  purified,  nor  the  two  latter  coined  or 
stamped.  Then  there  were  the  most  powerful,  rich,  and 
beautiful  issues  from  it,  whenever  the  pressure  was 
greatest.  It  could  have  withstood  then,  the  run  of  all 
North  America.  But  how  is  it  now?  Not  much  unlike 
the  Bank  of  Amsterdam,  after  the  eruption  of  Napoleon 
—a  place  of  subterranean  darkness  and  emptiness:  a  place 
of  discount  and  deposit  for  bad  paper  (which  were  better 
fitted  for  any  other  place  of  deposit  J — drawn  by  bankrupts 
— who  live  by  overdrawing — countersigned  by  Mr.  Eve- 
rett— and  endorsed  by  him,  when  very  questionable — 
upon  the  patience,  folly  and  good  nature  of  a  publick, 
who  only  want  to  be  run  upon  for  five  minutes,  to  be- 
come sensible  of  their  own  precarious  situation — to  check 
100  per  cent,  at  least,  offhand;  and  to  dishonour,  forever, 
every  future  draft  of  the  concern.  In  short — to  say  all 
in  one  word — There  were  such  men  as  Daniel  Webster, 
Justice  Story,  Mr.  Dana,  and  Mr.  Sparks,  among  them 
— and  there  are  now,  only  the  Everett  and  company,  to 
manage  the  institution. 

But  there  are  nevertheless,  two  or  three  scientifick 
works  of  great  merit  in  our  country — at  the  head  of 
which  we  may  place,  Silliman's  Journal.     More  of  him 
anon — and  of  Cleveland  too  (an  honour  to  our  country) 
— and  of  Hayden,  a  devilish  clever  fellow  in  his  way. 

Good  by,  Stafford Good  by — but,  in  mercy  to  our 

reputation,  do  not  believe  that  either  Mr.  Walsh,  or  Mr. 
Everett,  or  their  solemn  retinue  of  essay  writers,  form 
any  part  of  our  natural-born  Americans.  No — they  are 
creatures  of  another  element,  unworthy  of  breathing  the 
same  atmosphere.  Where  is  their  manhood?  They  have 
none.  They  are  always  in  the  rear  of  publick  opinion 
— always  hesitating — always  qualifying — so  that,  happen 
what  may,  they  are  never  in  a  great  peril — of  being  either 
remarkably  right,  or  remarkably  wrong. 


RANDOLPH. 

But  is  there  nothing — absolutely  nothing,  to  commend, 
in  the  North  American?  Yes — now  and  then — by  some 
strange  accident,  they  do  get  a  sensible  essay  into  their 
paper,  which  smacks  of  America;  and  not  unfrequently, 
you  find  a  page  or  two,  that  seem  to  have  something  to 
do  with  the  subject.  But—  farewell— farewell,  for  the 
present — hereafter  I  shall  put  several  of  these  gentry  in 
training.  They  deserve  it;  and,  if  you  please,  you  may 
publish"  what  I  say — and  give  my  name,  on  demand,  to 
all  who  have  the  heart  to  ask  for  it. 

MOLTOJT. 


JOHN    TO    SARAH. 

1  have  just  returned  from  Molton's,  and  we  have 
agreed  upon  a  time,  when  he  will  be  as  little  occupied  as 
possible.  He  does  not  suspect  my  object,  I  am  sure;  but 
I  am  determined,  whatever  be  the  peril,  to  bring  him  direct- 
ly to  the  point,  on  the  subject  of  your  letter.  The  inter- 
view is  to  be  this  evening.  He  is  darker  and  sterner  than 
ever;  and,  yesterday,  when  I  called,  for  the  first  time, 
since  Juliet  and  he  met  in  my  presence,  he  refused  to  be 
seen.  But  I  saw  her — his  wife? — yea,  his  wife.  She 
was  wasted  away,  almost  to  death;  and,  when  I  entered, 
she  started,  as  if  the  tread  were  hostile;  nay,  during  the 
whole  of  my  visit,  for  I  desired  much  to  see  Molton,  un- 
social as  he  is— and  was  not  deterred,  until  she  went  her- 
self, to  get  permission,  and  returned  with  a  promise  from 
him,  to  see  me  in  the  evening — her  eyes  were  glancing, 
vividly,  and  continually,  toward  the  door,  the  court-yard, 

and  the  high  road,  as  if  something  evil  were  at  hand. 

She  is  a  majestick  creature; — and  the  tone  of  her  voice, 
went  to  my  heart.  We  spoke  of  foreign  parts,  and  she 
manifested,  at  times,  a  remarkably  familiar  and  apt  ac- 
quaintance with  every  thing  of  interest;  at  others,  it  was 
less  so,  evidently  from  her  confusion  and  anxiety.  She 
must  be  very  young,  yet — I  should  think  not  more  than 
eighteen;  and  ,  for  an  English  woman,  you  know,  that  is 
little  better  than  childhood.  The  servant  brought  her  a 
L 


,. . 

114  RANDOLPH. 

folded  paper,  while  I  was  there; — her  hand  trembled 
as  she  read  it;  and  the  colour  flew  into  her  face,  as  she  told 
him,  tearing  it  in  pieces,  and  returning  it,  to  bear  it  back 
to  the  person  from  whom  he  brought  it,  with  her  compli- 
ments. 1  wish  that  you  could  have  seen  her.  She  is 
more  sinned  against  than  sinning;  yet  the  fierce  spirit  of 
her  eyes;  the  quick  movement  of  her  beautiful  lip,  when 
agitated;  and  the  white  lustre  of  her  hands,  when  she 
put  aside  her  redundant  black  hair,  somewhat  angrily, 
while  she  tore  the  billet — indicated  a  disposition  com- 
pounded of  fiery  and  strange  elements;  one  that  I  should 
tremble  to  encounter,  in  its  wrath.  Farewell! — The 
moment  that  I  have  done  with  Molton,  I  shall  write  you 
the  particulars. 

A  singular  affair  happened  night  before  last  at  Jane's. 
Somebody  attempted  to  break  into  Juliet's  room,  but 
was  frightened  away.  A  pistol  was  fired,  and  it  was 
then  discovered  to  be  a  woman — some  mad  creature,  we 
suppose.  Juliet  was  inconceivably  alarmed,  but  it  is  all 
over  now. 

JOHN. 

P.  S.  I  open  this  to  say  that  yours,  from  NEW-HAVEN, 
is  just  received.  I  have  no  time  to  read  it  now— and 
have  put  it  aside,  to  be  read  and  answered,  to-night,  after 
my  return  from  Molton's. 


SARAH   TO   JOHN. 

In  a  letter  from  Mr.  Grenville,  whom  you  may  recol- 
lect, to  my  father,  that  arrived  just  now,  as  we  sat  at  the 
breakfast  table,  is  one  for  me,  from  our  dear  Frank.  I 
have  scarcely  time  to  scribble  a  word;  but  have  determin- 
ed to  keep  a  sort  of  journal;  and,  when  the  sheet  is  full, 
to  send  it. — The  carriage  is  at  the  door. — Frank  is  well 
— when  I  have  read  it,  at  leisure,  I  will  tell  you  the  par- 
ticulars. We  left  New- York  about  two  hours  since,  rose 
very  early,  and  are  just  recovering  from  the  degression 
and  desolateness  that  followed.  The  air  is  yet  wintry. 


RANDOLPH.  115 

Four  o'clock. — "We  shall  not  reach  New-Haven  to  night, 
smd  father  begins  to  wish  that  we  had  taken  the  steam 
boat,  as  he  recommended  at  first,  and  sent  the  carriage 
round  by  land.  He  is  quite  distressed  about  the  horses; 
and  I  am  tempted  to  laugh,  sometimes,  at  my  own  insig- 
nificance in  comparison.  We  have  just  dined;  and,  when 
we  stop  to-night,  I  shall  make  it  a  point,  to  say  a  word 
to  Juliet. — Heaven  bless  the  dear  creature. 

JViwe  o'clock. — It  has  rained  all  the  afternoon;  and  I 
am  in  quite  low  spirits.  My  good  father,  minding  his 
habitual  reverence  for  regularity,  rain  or  shine,  gave  me 
a  very  broad  hint,  a  few  moments  ago,  that  I  must  not 
think  of  sitting  up  any  longer  than  ten,  in  the  parlour; 
and,  after  complaining,  with  much  emphasis,  of  having 
been  jammed  up  in  a  close  carriage  with  all  sorts  of 
trumpery,  "eatery,"  band-boxes,  and  girls,  in  his  good 
natured  way — which  you  know  there  is  no  resisting, 
he  signified  that,  when  travelling,  one  ought  to  go  to  bed 
at  least  one  hour  earlier  than  usual.  I  looked  at  the 
clock,  and  smiled,  but  I  was  obliged  to  go.  It  stood  at 
nine,  and  was  the  Q.  E.  D.  to  his  proposition;  a  proposition 
that,  more  simply  conceived,  would  have  stood  thus 
"Come  Sarah,  pack  off!  give  me  a  kiss,  and  pack  off." 

Nay,  at  this  rate,  I  shall  never  begin  to  make  up  my 
despatch  for  Juliet.  So,  !>  will  leave  off  here;  write 
what  I  can  to  her,  and  enclose  it,  when  I  can. 

NEW  HAVEN. — At  last  we  have  arrived.  Really,  it  is 
a  beautiful  place,  and  I  have  been  all  over  it,  I  believe. 
We  drove  in,  over  a  pleasant  road,  just  as  the  people  be- 
gan to  get  abroad,  in  the  morning,  and  have  been  con- 
stantly occupied  since,  in  racing  over  the  colleges,  and 
examining  the  fine  cabinet  of  professor  Silliman,  whose 
travels  in  England  and  Scotland,  you  have  reason  to  re- 
member, for  their  beautiful,  unpretending  simplicity ;— and 
whose  travels  to  Quebec,  &c.  just  issued,  1  take  to  be  one 
of  the  most  egregious,  and  ill-judged  pieces  of  book-ma- 
king, that  was  ever  perpetrated  by  so  worthy  a  man.— 
But  the  cabinet  is  truly  magnificent  The  professor  is 
a  man  of  science;  and  a  work  conducted  by  him  here,  I 
am  told,  is  thought  very  highly  of,  by  our  arrogant 
friends  abroad. — The  reputation  of  the  college  is  on  the 


RANDOLPH. 

increase;  and  the  library  here,  is  one  of  the  most  respect- 
able in  America.  There  are  three  or  four  very  beautiful 
churches  too,  all  in  a  cluster;  and,  if  I  may  be  allowed  so 
to  speak,  of  different  orders;  one,  at  any  rate,  seems  really 
Gothick,  and  the  others,  I  have  not  quite  pretention 
enough  to  give  a  name  to,  but  they  are  very  pretty.  An 
object  of  considerable  curiosity  to  strangers,  too,  is  a 
grave  yard.  It  is  full  of  native  marble,  of  every  variety, 

found,  they  say,  at  Middletown,  close  by oh,  I  must 

not  forget  a  trivial  incident,  that  occurred  in  our  ram- 
bling there.  It  is  a  traveller's  privilege,  you  know,  to  be 
startled,  with  the  commonest  thing,  when  he  has  noth- 
ing else  to  do. — I  was  reading  an  epitaph,  when  my  fa- 
ther touched  my  arm,  and  pointed  to  a  figure  at  a  dis- 
tance, that  was  leaning  against  an  urn; — it  was  twilight, 
and  his  person  could  not  be  distinctly  seen,  but  there  was 
something  uncommon,  and  even  striking  in  his  attitude. 
My  father  took  my  arm,  and,  as  we  returned,  we  passed 
near  the  place,  but  the  stranger  averted  his  head,  folded 
his  arms,  and  took  another  path. 

uDid  you  not  observe  him,  before/*  said  my  father, 
carelessly.  There  was  something  in  his  tone,  neverthe- 
less, that  startled  me.  I  turned  and  looked  in  his  face, 
and  it  instantly  flushed  across  my  mind,  that  there  was 
some  suspicion  there.  I  stooped.  I  laid  my  hand  upon 
his  arm.  I  remembered  how  he  had  resisted,  longer  and 
more  earnestly  than  he  was  wont,  my  importunity  to  vi- 
sit the  church  yard. 

"No,  sir,"  said  I,  "I  never  saw  the  man  before,  in  my 
life,  to  my  knowledge." 

"I  am  glad  of  it,"  was  the  reply. 

But  why  was  he  glad  of  it?  Who  was  the  man?  Some 
student,  probably,  who  chose  to  saunter  after  us,  or  re- 
hearse his  attitudes,  under  the  affectation  of  melancholy, 
(for  such  was  his  appearance)  and  settled  despondency, 
before  us,  because  he  saw  that  we  were  strangers. 

"He  has  followed  us  a  long  time,"  said  my  father. 

"Followed  us! — who — that  man!" — I  exclaimed.  It 
now  occurred  to  me  that  there  was  somebody  near  me,%as 
I  came  through  a  long  entry,  rather  dark,  from  the  cabi- 
net of  Mineralogy, — — Was  this  the  same  person?  My 


RANDOLPH.  ,117 

blood  thrilled  at  the  time,  and  I  turned  and  caught  at  my 
father's  arm — I  remember,  but  he  took  no  notice  of  it, 
whatever,  or  whoever  it  was;  for  it  had  passed  very 
quickly. 

"Yes,"  answered  my  father,  "I  believe  that  I  have 
seen  him,  twice  before  to-day;  both  times,  he  seemed  to 
be  observing  us;  and  once,  1  am  sure,  he  avoided  us,  as 
if  he  were  unwilling  to  be  seen. 

There  cousin;  if  I  would  stop  just  there,  a  very  pretty 
effect  might  be  produced;  but  unfortunately,  the  matter  has 
become  quite  intelligible,  since  our  return.  We  happened, 
at  tea,  to  speak  of  two  tremendous  rocks,  that  can  be  seen 
from  almost  any  part  of  the  city; — one,  in  particular, 
which  rears  itself  up,  as  from  the  midst  of  a  plain,  black- 
ening, with  its  shadow,  a  vast  extent  of  blue  water  and 
green  turf  below.  Our  landlord  heard  us,  and,  as  is  the 
fashion  here,  1  find,  entered  into  conversation  with  us, 
exactly  as  if  we  were  in  his  bar  room.  My  father  was 
mightily  .pleased  with  this;  and,  in  his  blunt  way,  kept 
him  in  conversation,  till  the  whole  mystery  came  out. — 
It  seems  that  there  is  an  asylum  for  the  deaf  and  dumb- 
here;  and  the  pupils  are  perpetually  playing  some  mad 
prank  iiz  the  neighbourhood; — not  long  since,  they  built 
a  great  fire  upon  the  top  of  one  of  these  rocks,  at  mid- 
night. The  effect  was  terrible — it  looked  like  a  furnace 
in  heaven;  and  the  people  were  all  thrown  into  consterna- 
tion /or  awhile.  There  are  several  exceedingly  inter- 
esting creatures,  among  the  helpless  association,— gifted 
beings,  whose  intellectual  faculties  seem  but  the  brighter, 
fo>  the  darkness  that  abides  upon  tlieir  physical  organs, 
.flow  providently  are  we  fitted  for  such  deprivations.  If 
we  lose  our  sight,  our  feeling  becomes  all  the  quicker 
for  it.  And  so  with  all  our  other  senses.  Have  you 
forgotten  our  blind  friend,  Dr. ,  the  lecturer  on  op- 
ticks,  at  Edinburgh?  Did  you  ever  hear  him  maintain 
that  it  would  be  better'to  be  born  without  eyes?  He  does 
it,  something  in  this  way,  I  believe.  First,  he  proves 
that  his  touch  is  better  than  our  sight;  for  he  can  discover 
the  most  delicate  scratch,  made  with  an  etching  tool  upon 
a  polished  steel  plate,  with  the  end  of  his  finger,  honed 
for  the  purpose,  when  the  naked  eye  cannot.  «<The  sense 


118  BANDOLPH. 

of  sight/'  he  goes  on  to  say,  "is  confined  to  one  organ, 
so  delicate,  that  the'least  thing  destroys,  or  impairs  it; 
subject  to  many  peculiar,  unknown,  and  distressing  dis- 
eases; and  always  impaired  by  age  and  sickness.  Once 
gone,  there  is  no  help  for  you.  It  is  too  late  then,  to  cul- 
tivate the  sense  of  touch.  But  if  you  were  born  blind, 
you  would  get  the  same  exquisite  sense  that  he  has.  And 
that  cannot  be  destroyed.  Lop  off  that  finger, — it  still 
exists  in  another.  Lop  off  the  hand,  the  arm,  the  body; 
yet  while  there  is  one  spark  of  life  left,  the  faculty  of  the 
touch  remains — it  still  feels.  Therefore,  it  is  better  to 
be  born  blind!'* 

0 — there  is  one  thing,  that  I  had  well  nigh  forgotten. 
My  father,  you  know,  is  little  curious,  or  suspicious, 
about  what  concerns  me.  Therefore  it  is,  that,  feeling 
proud  of  his  confidence,  I  cannot  conceal  anything  from 
him.  Be  careful  then,  hereafter,  of  what  you  say;  for,  if 
he  should  desire  to  see  your  letters,  I  shall  certainly 
show  them  to  him.  I  mention  this  because,  laltely,  when 
I  received  an  anonymous  note  (relating  to  Molton,)  his 
pleasant  eyes  grew  serious,  and  he  remarked,  with  some 
little  petulance,  that  I  seemed  to  be  rather  too  full  of  ne- 
gotiation. So — be  wise  in  season,  and,  whatever  you 
write  of  your  own,  take  care  not  to  put  that  which  concerns 
another,  in  the  power  of  .accident. 

Farewell, 

SARAH. 

P.  S.  0,  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  stranger  is  ofce  of 
the  poor  deaf  and  dumb  creatures  of  the  asylum. 


SARAH   TO   JUXIET. 

% 

Juliet,  my  sweet  Juliet! would  that  I  were  near 

thee! — I  might  then  prove  to  thee,  how  deeply  I  have 
been  affected  by  thy  counsel.  I  wanted  but  that,  it  would 
seem,  to  know  thee,  perfectly,  as  thou  art — the  most  pa- 
tient of  human  beings,  the  most  benignant,  the  most  for- 
giving. If  my  heart  were  not  the  better  for  thy  chiding, 


RANDOLPH.  119 

I  know  not  what  could  make  it  better.  Am  I  humbler,  in 
reality?  I  do  believe  that  I  am,  dear;  but  I  cannot  de- 
clare it  yet,  until  I  have  had  my  humility  more  fully 

tried.     They  tell  me  that  there  is some  prospect  of 

thy — restoration,  I  was  about  to  say; — but  no,  it  would 
be  cruel — I  ought  not  to  say  it.  Do  not  believe  me;— 
disregard  it — I  pray  thee:  continue  as  prepared  as  thou 
hast  been;  as  resigned,  as  lowly,  and  if  aught  can  help 
thee,  that  tranquillity  and  submissiveness  will.  I  meant 
to  have  written  a  long  letter,  but  I  cannot. 

My  spirits  are  heavy;  and  there  is  a  strange  pertur- 
bation at  my  heart,  that  I  cannot  attribute  to  aught  but 
my  distress  for  thee,  dear,  patient,  Juliet — heaven  be 
with  thee! — forever  and  ever;  and,  if  we  must  part,  all  my 
prayer  is,  that  thou  mayest  pass  away,  as  thou  hast  lived, 
in  purity  and  quiet;  and,  that  I  may  follow  thee,  as  pure- 
ly, and  as  quietly. — Farewell! — but  with  all  my  effort, 
all  my  apprehension,  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  realize 
thy  danger — What! — but  yesterday,  my  companion  at 

the  school,  so  beautiful,  so  full  of  health,  and  to  day 

O,  no,  it  cannot  be. — Thou  art  not  so  very  frail. — Ah — 
what  have  I  done! — Juliet,  dear  Juliet,  do  not  regard 
me!  Do  not  let  me  delude  thee.  Expect  death — ex- 
pect nothing  else — farewell . 

My  father  has  just  sent  up  to  inform  me,  that  the  gen- 
tleman and  family,  whom  he  was  expecting  to  meet  at 
Boston,  have  actually  arrived  within  a  few  miles  of  this 
city;  and  that,  instead  of  going  to  Boston,  now,  they  will 
join  their  forces,  and  proceed,  directly,  to  Lake  George, 
or  to  Niagara,  while  the  water  is  at  the  fullest,  with  the 
melting  snow,  and  spring  rains.  I  shall  continue  to 
write  thee,  at  every  stage,  and  send,  as  I  can.  In  the 
mean  time,  my  friend,  my  sister,  my  beloved  Juliet,  let 
nothing  disturb  thee; — think  not  of  the  past — and  0,  think 

not  of nay,  I  must  not  name  him — and  write  me  as 

thou  canst. 

SARAH. 


120  RANDOLPH. 

JSDWARD  MO1TON  TO  JAMES  HARROW. 

I  pray  you,  my  dear  Harrow,  do  not  address  me  again, 
with  the  title  of  Esquire.  I  do  not  like  it,  and  am  not 
authorized  to  assume  it.  Nay,  to  speak  serioush,  it 
offends  me,  when  a  man  of  sense,  knowing  me  to  be  an 
•American*  calls  me  Esquire. 

Your  affectionate  letter  came  to  me  in  a  good  time.  Some 
circumstances,  of  a  nature  too  serious  to  explain,  have 
kept  me,  for  a  long  time,  nay,  ever  since  we  parted,  in  a 
state  of  continual  agitation.  The  natural  result  of 
which,  is,  exactly  what  you  predicted.  I  am  not  long 
for  this  world.  My  body  is  worn  out.  It  may  be,  that 
my  mind  hath  shattered  it.  But,  be  it  what  it  may,  the 
fulfilment  of  my  destiny  is  rapidly  accomplishing.  Yet, 
nobody  knows  it.  I  would  go  quietly,  if  I  can.  Can  you 
believe  that  1  have  forgotten  you?  no — you  knew  well, 
at  the  moment  when  your  pen  traced  the  words;  or  you 
would  have  known  it,  had  you  stopped  your  hand,  and 
asked  yourself  the  question,  that  it  was  false.  It  was 
one  of  your  habitual  phrases,  Harrow,  and  said  without 
any  meaning  at  all.  Were  it  not  so,  I  should  have  been 
mortified  and  alarmed.  You  know  that  I  do  not  easily 
form  an  attachment;  that  my  heart  is  barren  of  late,  of 
fruit  and  blossom — iron — that  its  germinating  principle 
is  extinguished;  that  it  never  will  be  in  flower  again — 
Can  you  believe  then,  that  it  has  forgotten  the  time,  the 
spring  time  of  its  power,  when  it  loved  and  was  beloved; 

when  it  chose  you  for  its  friend,  and no — no — no— 

Hai  row,  you  knew  that  I  had  not  "forgotten  you."  It 
was  unworthy  of  you,  and  of  me,  therefore,  to  say  so, 
even  in  pleasantry.  It  was  worse — it  was  childish — the 
coquetry  of  a  man. 

You  tell  me  that  Clinton  Howard  is  dead.  I  am  glad 
of  it.  My  blood  leaped  in  my  veins,  when  I  saw  the 
name.  Being  dead — I  forgive  him.  It  might  have  been 
otherwise,  had  we  met.  In  sickness  and  death,  we  are 
forgiving — but  the  current  of  hostility  flows  in,  with  the 
flow  of  the  blood,  again.  I  am  not  used,  you  know, 
to  carrying  my  sword  away,  without  a  "heart  stain  upon 
it,"  where  J  am  so  wronged,  accursed,  so  irretrievably 


RAN  OOt  PH.  121 

accursed,  as  I  have  been,  by  the  machinations  of  that 

man.  Tell  him  that  I  forgive  him — tell  him .  But  I 

forget. — Ah,  Harrow— I  shall  meet  him,  before  you  do;  and 
I  will  tell  him  so,  with  my  own  lips — yes — tear  open  my 
bosom  before  him,  shew  him  a  heart,  a  noble  heart — re- 
duced to  blackness  and  death,  by  his  infernal  sorceries; 
uncover  my  side—  shew  him  the  serpent  that  is  feeding 
there;  and  then,  while  the  hand  of  the  Judge  is  upon  us 

both, I'll no  matter no  matter .  Time 

enough,  when  we  meet. 

The  husband — Harrow,  is  it  true?  Beware  how  you 
trifle  with  me.  I  am  in  no  humour  for  such  things.  I 
have  just  come  to  that  passage  again.  Can  it  be  that  he 
survived?  Do  you  really  believe  it? — "the  tomb  empty;" 
perhaps  it  was  done  by  the  surgeons,  Harrow.  Such 
things  have  happened.  At  any  rate,  hear  me,  hear  me, 
as  thou  lovest  me,  and  O,  if  there  be  one  pulse  of  that 
gallant  nature  that  thou  hadst,  when  we  parted,  go  to  the 
bottom  of  this  story.  See  if  he  be  really  and  truly,  a 
living  man.  Then  see  where  he  is — where  is  her  broth- 
er? Spare  no  expense — none; — go  to  the  bottom  of  the 
ocean — the  ends  of  the  earth — but  let  me  hear  the  result 
by  the  first  vessel.  Nay,  send  a  duplicate  by  every  ves- 
sel that  comes  to  America.  Do  this,  and  I  will  bless 
thee,  Harrow,  bless  thee,  with  my  latest  breath.  O,  if 
it  be  true,  indeed,  what  a  load  will  be  taken  off  my  heart. 
Then,  I  shall  be  happy— Men,  Harrow,  I  shall  care  not 
how  soon  he  may  strike  his  dagger  into  my  side.  I  shall 
die  contented. 

Would  you  believe  it?  The  people  here,  do  not  even 
know  that  I  was  ever  in  your  country.  One  or  two  have 
said  it,  but  they  have  always  said  it,  doubtfully.  And 
my  own  mother,  even  she  does  not  know  that  I  am  other 
than  what  I  seem  to  the  whole  world;  stern  and  solitary. 
No!  she  does  not  suspect  that  there  is  blood,  blood,  Har- 
row, upon  these  hands.  They  call  me  a  Scot,  too! — ex- 
cellent!   

I  was  interrupted.  Harrow,  nobody  knows  me  here. 
I  sit  alone.  I  walk  alone.  I  hold  no  communion  with 
aught  that  hath  life  in  it — except  — — ..  Have  I  said 


RANDOLPH, 

enough?  What  has  she  not  endureq*  for  me?— -and  can  I 
leave  her?  No,  no! — though  the  heavens  were  to  pass 
away,  this  night — this  very  night,  in  thunder  and  smoke, 
I  should  not  be  alone — I  should  not  know  it — if  Helen  were 
near  me. 

Harrow,  my  hand  shakes  so,  that  I  can  scarcely  see 
the  paper.  The  whole  atmosphere  is  reddish,  and  full 
of 'bright  characters.  Do  you  believe  in  ghosts?  I  am 
serious,  Harrow.  Do  you  bf  lieve  it  possible  that  a  dead 
man  may  return?  If  such  a  thing  be  possible,  then  have 
I  seen  a  man  that  I  once  slew.  He  was  at  my  elbow  this 
moment.  Can  you  read  what  I  write?  I  cannot.  But 
still  I  go  on — on — on — seeing  nought,  hearing  nought, 
determined  to  bear  up  to  the  last a 

****#*##:*# 

I  have  been  sick,  Harrow.  Something  has  happened 
to  me.  I  know  not  what; — but  when  I  come  to  myself, 
just  now,  it  was  totally  dark  about  me,  and  1  knew  not 
where  I  was.  At  first,  1  had  some  confused  notion  that 
the  day  of  judgment  had  come; — and  then,  that  I  was  at 
sea,  and  had  been  thrown  out  of  my  birth,  as  I  once  was, 
.when  the  ship  was  struck  by  a  squall,  and  rolled  over. — 
At  last,  however,  I  recollected  myself  perfectly.  I  arose 
— rang  the  bell — waited  for  lights  to  come-^and  have 
set  down  again.  Am  I  afraid?  Yes,  mortally  afraid; 
but  I  dare  not  acknowledge  it.  One  person  might  be 
deceived,  Harrow — the  guilty  one; — I  can  conceive  of 
that.  But,  how  happens  it,  that  this  supernatural  shiv- 
ering— this  horrour  and  chilliness — at  a  certain  hour,  is 
common  to  all  that  inhabit  this  apartment,  or  the  next? 
How  is  it  that  strangers  are  unable  to  sleep  here?  No!  I 
dare  not  confess  that  I  am  afraid.  Poor  Helen! — it  is  only 
last  night  that  I  was  awakened  out  of  a  sweet,  O!  a  most 
sweet  and  refreshing  slumber,  almost  the  first  that  I  have 
had,  since  we  entered  this  accursed  mansion,  by  a  quick 
cry,  and  a  dead  weight  falling  upon  my  naked  breast. — 
I  awoke.  Poor  Helen  was  lifeless.  Her  cold  hand  em- 
braced mine  like  that  of  a  drowning  creature.  The  moon 
shone  through  the  red  curtains  with  a  sickly  strange 
lustre,  and  the  whole  room  was  bright,  in  all  but  one 
spot.  That  was  dark, — but  even  that  soon  became  bright; 


HANDOIPH.  123 

and  then,  I  awoke  my  sweet  Helen.     God  of  heaven! — 
how  cold  she  was.     1  shuddered  as  if  I  held  a  corpse — 
another  corpse,  Harrow,  to  my  heart,  and  was  carrying 
it,  in  the  starlight,  to  burial.     But  why  do  I  tell  thee  of 
that?     Thou  knowest  nothing  of  it— tlwu — oh,  thou  art 
as  unsuspecting,  as  they  that  are  about  me.'    They  see 
me,  know  me,  talk  to  me; — but  little  do  they  dream  of 
what  I  am  capable,  or  of  what  I  have  done.  We  lay  and 
conversed,  nearly  all  the  night;  and  I  was  chilled  by  the 
contact.     Her  arms  enfolded  me,  like  frozen  serpents. 
The  affinity  between  us  seemed  suspended  for  awhile. — 
O,  Harrow,  how  bitterly  have  we  suffered! — how  cruelly, 
how  inconceivably,  have  we  been  slandered!  By  heaven, 
there  never  was  a  righteous  movement  of  the  hand  or 
heart  of  man,  which  might  not  be  represented  to  his 
destruction.     Well,  we  lay  and  talked  of  the  apparition. 
I  ridiculed  her  fears; — but  her  cold  cheek  was  close  to 
my  heart;  and,  I  am  sure,  that  its  palpitation  was  a  dis- 
tressing subject  of  doubt,  to  her.     She  wept — and  I  em- 
braced her,  chilly  and  damp  as  she  felt; — \\hile  her  re- 
dundant hair  swept  over  my  arms,  as  if  the  spectre  were 
there.     Yea,  I  embraced  her  in  his  very  presence!     I 
know  that  he  was  standing  over  us.     I  felt  it.     It  was 
in  defiance.     Were  it  aught  that  would  have  appeared, 
at  my  bidding,  Harrow,  naked  as  I  was,  weak  as  I  was, 
I  would  have  summoned  it  again,  and  put  my  question- 
ing home  to  it! — I  would!  by  my  everlasting  soul!  What! 
have  I  lived  to  this  age,  to  be  the  sport  of  malicious 
shadows.  What  business  has  it  here?  If  here — why  does 
it  trouble  Helen? — why,  my  friends?   Have  I  not  seen  a 
shadow,  blacker  than  all  the  surrounding  darkness, 
again  and  again,  at  my  bedside?  Why  was  it  there? 

O,  Harrow,  pity  me.  There  is  some  terrible  delusion 
in  this.  I  know  it.  F  am  sure  of  it.  Yet,  I  would  give 
my  right  arm  to  understand  it.  The  cause  is  a  natural 
one.  I  do  not  doubt  that;  but  my  flesh  creeps — yes,  even 
now,  it  creeps — at  the  creaking,  perhaps,  of  the  door — - 
Harrow,  my  friend,  give  me  thy  hand!  It  dare  not  face 
me!  It  dare  not  take  a  shape  to  itself,  and  appear  before 
m»J  No! — it  is  the  shadow  of  a  dastard!  I  have  called 
to  it! — dared  it! — cursed  it,  on  my  knees,  in  prayer  and 


124  RANDOLPH. 

blasphemy,  but  it  would  not  appear.  It  dared  not!  Per- 
haps I  have  been  mistaken.  It  was  only  for  a  moment, 
that  I  ever  saw  anything;  and  that  was  in  the  great  mir- 
ror, before  which  I  am  writing;  and  sometimes,  God  for- 
give me  for  my  pusillanimity,  I  get  so  appalled  and 
crushed  by  the  weight  of  terrour  and  desolation,  that  was 
upon  me,  that  I  dare  not  lift  up  my  eyes  to  it!  No,  Har- 
row, it  dare  not  face  me!  But  it  went  by  me,  in  the  wind. 
It  was  his  whisper,  too.  I  could  swear  to  it.  I  felt  it. 
It  was  evil.  It  was  no  friendly  visiting. 

Evening. 

Two  days  have  passed.  I  am  still  very  weak,  and 
subject  to  such  frequent  fits  of  derangement,  that  I  dared 
not  take  out  the  sheet  on  which  I  have  been  writing,  lest 
I  should  be  too  suddenly  seized,  and  it  might  fall  into  the 
hands  of  Helen,  or  of  some  one  that  I  would  not  like  to 
know  me.  But  I  am  more  cheerful,  now.  She  is  sitting 
opposite  to  me; — her  beautiful  eyes  lowering  upon  me, 
continually,  in  all  their  ravishing  brightness.  I  am  eve- 
ry hour  expecting  a  young  man,  of  whom  I  have  a  high 
opinion.  He  is  romantick  in  his  temper;  and  the  dark 
grandeur  of  my  habitation,  and,  perhaps,  the  mystery 
about  its  master,  have  captivated  him.  Till  he  comes,  I 
must  do  the  best  that  I  can,  to  finish  this  long  letter;  but 
you  deserve  a  long  one,  my  friend; — and  I  shall  try  to 
give  you,  page  for  page.  My  nerves  are  exceedingly 
shattered,  and  I  have  no  confidant  but  yoiir— judge  of  my 
situation. 

Apropos,  of  Baltimore.  I  do  not  wonder  at  your  pre- 
judice; but  the  worst  story  that  you  have  heard  is  mighti- 
ly exaggerated.  That  murder  happens  now  and  then, 
is  true; — that  boys  have  gone  upon  the  highway, — and 
deliberately  thrust  a  knife  into  a  poor  fellow's  heart, 
when  he  was  bound  hand  and  foot,  is  true;  that  many  a 
privateer,  during  the  late  war,  has  become  a  pirate,  or 
slave  trader  since;  and,  probably,  under  the  countenance 
of  some  of  our  great  men,  is  extremely  probable,  to  say 
the  least  of  it; — that  there  was  a  mob  here  not  long  since, 
in  which  a  dozen  respectable  citizens  where  nearly  mur- 
dered and  hung — and  one  old  man,  an  officer  of  the  revo- 


RANDOLPH.  125 

lution  was  murdered  outright,  by  a  rabble,  whom  a  single 
company  of  horse  would  have  dispersed;  and  that  the  mur- 
derers escaped  on  trial,  is  also  true: — but,  after  all,  there 
are  as  fine  and  free  spirited  a  set  of  fellows,  in  Baltimore, 
as  any  where  else  on  this  earth.  They  are  frank,  and 
hospitable, — and  honest,  I  have  no  doubt,  in  the  main, 
notwithstanding  the  bank-robberies  of  some  respectable 
scoundrels, — and  the  unparalleled  commercial  gambling; 
and  consequent  failure  of  another  part  of  the  community, 
as  any  body  of  people  to  be  found — out  of  Edinburg  or  Bo- 
tamj  Bay.*  These  last  words  are  by  Helen — seeing  me 
stop,  for  a  phrase,  and  knowing  that  I  was  writing  to 
you — she  made  me  read  what  I  had  written,  and  then 
added  that.  Hereafter,  I  shall  make  it  a  point  to  set  you 
right  in  several  matters  relating  to  this  country,  and  the 
state  of  literature  and  the  fine  arts,  here;  at  present,  I 
must  content  myself  with  replying  to  your  story  of  the 
pirates.  I  shall  tell  it,  as  it  was,  without  favour  or  par- 
tiality. As  it  is  told  abroad,  I  admit,  that  it  looks  serious. 
There  is  little  difference,  to  be  sure,  in  the  facts,  but  the 
colouring  is,  in  general,  too  like  substance. 

The  story,  if  1  understand  it,  with  you;  is,  that  we  arc 
a  nest  of  pirates,  —scarcely  better,  in  Baltimore,  than  the 
Barbary  powers: — that,  it  is  almost  impossible  to  bring  a 
pirate  to  justice  here;  and  that,  when  you  have  overcome 
all  the  tricks  of  law,  the  partiality  of  the  judges,  the 
ability  and  eloquence  of  counsel,  the  reluctance  of  the 
jury, — and  obtained  a  verdict,  and  a  condemnation:- -that, 
after  all  this,  the  chief  magistrate  is  sure  to  be  beset  for 
a  pardon,  or  commutation  of  the  punishment; — that  he 
almost  always,  in  his  covetousncss  of  popularity,  fear- 
fulness  of  offending ,  and  from  a  few  other  equally 

worthy  and  dignified  considerations,  does  pardon  them. 
But  that,  when  he  refuses— and  these  pirates  are  actual- 
ly hung,  the  citizens  cut  them  dovvn  in  form;  go,  in  pro- 
cesssion  to  the  burial,  just  as  they  did  to  that  of  Washing- 
ton and  Lawrence  (a  naval  captain  here — commander 

*  The  yellow  fever,  and  all  such  matters,  are  attributed   to   the  es- 
tablishment of  a  church  in  Baltimore,  where  they  worship  but  one  God. 

PUINTSH'S  DEVIL. 

M 


126  RANDOLPH. 

of  the  Chesapeake)— -and  deposit  their  bodies  in  conse- 
crated ground. 

All  this  is  too  true.  The  case  did  occur  once.  Two 
men  were,  formftily,  deliberately,  and  reluctantly  con- 
demned as  pirates;— suffered  as  pirates;  and  should  have 
been  buried  as  pirates.  But  no,  some  well  meaning  citi- 
zens petitioned  the  president — who,  merciful  and  weak 
as  he  is,  would  not  pardon  them,  nor  commute  the 
penalty;  and  therefore,  to  show  their  respect  to  him  arid 
the  law,  they  went  in  procession  to  their  graves;  honour- 
ed them  as  martyrs — as  the  victims  of  the  law — not  as 
pirates; — not,  as  they  really  were,  of  that  remorseless 
band,  who  traverse  the  ocean,  and  make  war  upon  the 
poor  mariner, — the  most  defenceless  of  God's  creatures. 
But  it  is  said  that  they  were  innocent.  Innocent!  How 
is  that  known?  How  dare  you  presume  such  a  thing  in 
the  face  of  their  condemnation,  under  the  deliberate  wis- 
dom of  your  laws?  Do  you  believe  it?  On  what  proof?  Is 
there  any?  No — No.  You  have  listened  to  their  own  story, 
and  who  cannot  tell  as  plausible  a  one?  Who,  if  his  own 
story  be  believed,  will  ever  be  found  guilty  of  any  crime? 
No,  Harrow,  it  was  a  mistaken  thing, — rash  arid  un- 
thinking, got  up  in  resentment  to  the  President  of  the 
United  States,  because  he  refused,  wisely  refused  their 
pardon.  Suppose  that  they  were  innocent  of  bloodshed. 
There  was  still  enough  left  to  make  them  guilty  of  pira- 
cy. And  piracy  is  not  to  be  forgiven,  by  a  commercial 
people.  No — if  there  be  aught  to  complain  of,  it  is  the 
clemency  of  our  chief  magistrate.  He  should  be  inflexi- 
ble. I  would  divest  him  of  the  power  of  pardoning. 
What  then?  The  jury  would  be  less  likely  to  condemn. 
No  more  criminals  would  suffer,  and  the  majesty  of  the 
law  would  be  vindicated. 

Were  they  innocent?  So  much  the  better  for  them- 
selves. The  drunken  man,  who  commits  murder,  may 
not  have  intended  to  kill;— the  man,  found  in  possession 
of  stolen  goods,  may  have  found  them,  as  he  declares, 
when  he  was  alone; — but  there  is  no  help  for  him — there 
should  be  none,  except  in  his  general  character.  Both 
may  be  innocent;  but  if  you  pardon  the  former,  you  invite 
men  to  the  commission  of  murder,  under  pretence  of  in- 


RANDOLPH.  127 

ebriety;  and  could  never  punish  one,  merely  from  finding 
stolen  goods  in  his  possession.  Nay,  the  law  ought  to  ex- 
amine rigorously  the  plea  of  insanity,  itself.  It  is  easily 
counterfeited; — it  were  very  easy,  for  one  who  meditated 
some  tremendous  revenge — Iknow  it,  Harrow — to  betray, 
for  months  before,  by  his  extrav  agance,  enough  to  startle 
the  jury,  when  on  trial.  But  let  him  perish.  If  there 
be  the  slightest  doubt  that  he  was  truly  mad — let  him 
perish!  God  will  do  him  justice.  We  cannot: — and  the 
policy  of  society  commands  us  to  judge  of  men,  by  appear- 
ances; and  of  actions,  by  their  consequences. 

I  stopped,  on  looking  at  my  watch,  for  the  time  is 
close  at  hand;  and  I  feel  a  growing  inquietude  to  know 
why  I  am  so  seriously  interrogated.  The  unclouded 
moon  shines  beautifully  in  upon  us,  now.  How  mildly, 
strangely  expressive,  is  her  face.  I  see  shadows  passing 
over  it,  as  she  goes  onward,  onward,  forever  onward,  on 
her  sweet,  quiet  pilgrimage; — the  light  itself  grows  dim; 
and  the  loveliness  of  Helen  is  truly  spiritual  at  this  mo- 
ment. She  remembers  you; — weeps,  now  and  then,  in 

thinking  of  old  times; — and but  farewell.     It  is  tima 

to  part,  indeed.  Farewell !  Don't  forget  that  the  Bal- 
timoreans  are  a  generous,  warm-hearted,  noble  people, 
and  cruelly  slandered,  not  only  by  you,  but  by  their 
countrymen. 

Yours,  truly  and  heartily, 

ED.   MOlTOff. 

James  Harrow,  London. 


JU1IET  TO  SARAH* 

Sarah 

Fall  down  upon  thy  knees,  to  our  blessed  Father  in 
heaven!  He  hath  had  compassion  upon  me;  my  com- 
plaint is  not  that  of  death.  The  crisis  hath  passed;  seve- 
ral consultations  have  been  held — an  operation  perform- 
ed, and  I  have  come  out,  again,  from  the  chamber  of 
darkness;  from  the  very  tomb,  I  might  say,  like  one  re- 


128  RANDOLPH. 

joicing  from  the  sepulchre—  among  the  flowers,  and  wind, 
and  sunshine  of  another  world.  O,  Sarah,  in  this  calm 
evening,  with  the  dear  blue  sky,  floating  dimly  up  there, 
where  I  might  have  been  at  this  monent,  in  His  mercy, 
had  he  not  forborne  a  little  while;  and  the  cold  air  just 
stirring  the  myrtle  leaves,  there  at  the  window — O,  what  a 
horrible  sense  I  have  of  the  past — the  loneliness  and 
desolation  that  I  was  hastening  to. — Stay — one  word 
more. — I  am  forbidden  to  write,  even  to  thee;  and  they 
are  shutting  the  windows,  at  this  moment,  as  if  the  breath 
of  God,  were  not  the  breath  of  life  to  me.  Where  is  our 
friend  John?  I  have  not  seen  him  for  two  weeks.  No- 
body knows  where  he  is.  And  I  would  have  told  you, 
Sarah,  with  my  own  hand,  earlier  than  this,  what  the 
prospect  was,  of  my  recovery,  but  I  waited  to  have  the 
hope  confirmed.  1  was  willing  to  die. — Was  I? — 0,  I 
know  not.  I  could  not  die  now.  How  strange  it  is.  I 
look  back  at  that  willingness,  with  wonder  and  amaze- 
ment. I  ask  myself,  if  it  be  possible  that  I — I,  a  poor, 
weak,  trembling  creature,  was  so  well  prepared,  as  it 
seemed,  to  go  before  the  judgment-seat.  Sarah,  I  can 
scarcely  breathe,  when  I  think  of  what  I  have  escaped. 
Was  I  nerved  by  desperation?  Criminals,  they  say, 
are  so,  sometimes;  and  stand  firm  to  the  last;  when,  at 
the  slightest  whisper,  or  murmur  of  compassion,  or  hope, 
they  are  agitated  to  convulsion.  Nay,  have  I  not  heard 
my  father  say,  that,  in  the  battles  of  the  Revolution,  he 

did  his  duty,  like  a  man (no,  like  a  brute; ) 

without  one  thought  of  fear — one  prayer  to  his  Maker, 
when  the  balls  poured  in  upon  them,  like  a  storm  of  hail 
from  the  sky;  and  afterward,  when  alonfc  in  the  dim  wood, 
journeying  with  no  other  companion,  than  Him,  whom  he 
had  forgotten  in  his  greatest  need,  that  he  has  fallen  flat 
upon  his  face,  at  the  recollection  of  his  tremendous  insen- 
sibility? 

I  would  not  add  another  word,  for  it  is  unaccouutable 
to  me,  how  I  have  hud  the  strength,  to  write  so  much,  in 
the  flutter  of  my  heart,  at  breathing  the  fresh  air,  once 
more,  with  none  of  that  warm,  sickening  earthiness,  that 
fills  the  death  chamber  and  which,  in  my  old  horrour  of 
being  buried  alive,  has  made  me  fancy,  more  than  once, 


RANDOLPH.  129 

that  I  was  buried,  and  breathing  in  a  eharnel  house. 
But  I  must  desire  that  you  never  mention  a  certain  name 
to  me,  again;  nor  remind  me,  henceforth,  in  any  way,  of 
it,  or  of  him,  or  of  aught  that  hath  ever  passed.  His 
time  has  gone  by.  He  is  lost.  Your  opinion  of  him,  is 
nearer  the  truth  than  mine  was.  And  above  all,  never 
disquiet  yourself  more,  about  him  and  me* 

Farewell 

J.  R.  G. 


SARAH  TO  JOHN. 

Mar  the  Falls  of  Niagara. 

We  are  now  within  two  miles  and  a  half  of  the  cata- 
ract. I  can  hear  it  roar,  distinctly;  and  the  earth  ap- 
pears to  tremble  under  my  feet.  I  do  not  say  that  it 
does  actually,  tremble,  but  only,  that  it  appears  to.  Per- 
haps it  may  be  the  agitation  of  the  air;  or,  it  may  be  that 
there  is  that  sympathy  between  these  elements,  which 
makes  one  correspond  to  the  movement  of  the  other,  as 
the  most  inert  things  will,  to  the  sound  ofmusick.  You  can 
hear  this,  you  know,  in  a  room  where  it  is  all  silent,  and 
two  instruments  are  in  perfect  unison.  If  you  touch  one, 
the  other  will  answer;  nay,  have  you  never  heard  of  a 
gentleman  in  Philadelphia,  whose  voice  is  so  powerful 
and  clear,  that  the  glasses  on  the  table  will  ring,  if  they 
be  put  together,  half  a  dozen,  or  so,  when  he  is  singing? 
I  can  answer  for  its  truth,  for  my  father  knows  him, 
and  has  heard  the  mysterious  reply;  or,  (one  more  illus- 
tration and  I  have  done;)  have  you  never  felt  the  wood 
tremble,  when  you  have  been  at  church,  and  your  hand 
rested  on  the  pew,  while  the  organ  was  playing?  Per- 
haps the  earth  answers  here,  to  this  organ  of  the  waters. 

What  a  conceit! but  is  it  worse  than  that  of  the 

poet,  over  whose  pages  we  have  so  often  laughed,  and 
scolded,  and  held  our  breath,  by  turns,  while  he  described 
— no,  he  did  not  describe  it,  the  "tempest  hymning"  of 
these  falls?  And  this  reminds  me  of  a  question  that  J 


130  RANDOLPH. 

dare  say  has  occurred  to  you  and  others,  time  and  again. 
Why  was  it  railed  the  "Battle  of  Niagara?  What  has 
Niagara  to  do  with  it?  or  the  falls?  or  the  battle?  No- 
thing  absolutely  nothing.  Yet,  having  chosen  the 

natrip,  he  probably  thought  it  rather  too  barefaced,  not 
to  mention  either  of  them,  in  the  poem.  But  how  does 
he  mention  them? — precisely  as  a  man  would,  who  had 

never  seen,  or  cared  for  either. Good  bye — they  are 

all  ready.  The  sun  is  shining  out,  and  we  are  sure  of 
having  a  delightful  time*  ********* 
#  #  *-^*^^^**^^*^^ 

Well! — we  have  returned.  We  have  seen  the  wonder, 
and  I  am  entirely  out  of  breath.  Shall  I  tell  the  truth? 
I  am  giddy  and  blind,  but  very  much  disappointed.  What 
exaggerated  pictures  the  imagination  will  form  of  such 
matters.  rfhe  poet  was  right; — he  has  never  been  there, 
they  say; — and  it  is  well  that  he  has  not.  Had  he  been, 
there,  and  studied  the  whole  in  detail,  there  would  then* 
have  been  none  of  that  indistinctness,  shadow,  and  dark- 
ness, in  his  picture,  which  provoked  all  my  powers  of 
thought  to  contention.  Yes,  I  am  disappointed; — and 
this,  notwithstanding  my  caution.  It  reminds  me  of 
Harper's  Ferry.  Mr.  Jefferson  says,  it  is  worth  cross- 
ing'the  Atlantick  to  see.  Fudge!  I  went  there,  and,  at 
the  hazard  of  my  neck,  clambered  up  Mr.  Jefferson's 
rock,  where,  it  is  said,  that  he  sat,  manufacturing  his 
notes;  looked  about  me  for  the  "war  of  the  rivers  and 
mountains,"  about  which  he  made  such  a  fuss  in  his  book, 
and  came  away,  mortified  to  the  soul,  that  so  great  a 
man,  should  have  been  so  intemperate.  But  he,  himself, 
is  ashamed  of  it  now,  I  believe;  and  speaks  of  his  past 
enthusiasm,  as  rather  that  of  the  blood  than  the  brain. 
So,  too,  my  father  once  went  somewhere  up  the  Kenne- 
beck  river,  in  the  District  of  Maine.  It  was  said,  in 
Morse's  Geography,  (and  Dr.  Morse  is  the  man,  you  re- 
collect, that  speaks  of  "brass  mines,")  to  be  the  greatest 
fall,  in  height,  not  in  quantity,  to  be  found  in  the  United 
States,  not  excepting  Niagara,  itself.  My  father  took 
a  guide,  wallowed  some  miles,  up  to  his  middle,  in  snow, 
(no  very  light  matter,  he  used  to  say,  for  one  of  his  ha- 
bit and  temper,)  and  knew  not  that  he  was  near  the  aw- 


BANDOLPH.  131 

iul  place,  till  his  guide  called  to  him,  to  stop!  or  he  was 
lost!  My  father  was  near  a  tree;  and,  in  his  horrour, 
caught  at  a  projecting  limb.  The  snow,  upon  which  he 
had  stood,  caved  in,  at  the  same  moment,  and  my  poor 
father  owed  his  preservation  to  the  tree  alone.  Being 
extricated  from  this,  his  guide  called  his  attention  to  the 
falls.  They  were  said  to  he  about  two  hundred  feet;  but 
some  idea  may  be  formed  of  their  descent,  from  the  fact, 
that  a  horse  went  down-  them  once,  and  came  out  alive 
below.  My  father  loo%ed  about  him,  for  the  signs  of  the 
water,  but  none  appeared.  There  were  a  few  holes,  here 
and  there,  in  the  snow — and  the  broken  crust  was  whiter 
in  the  middle,  and  heaped  up,  in  a  narrow  and  glittering 
ridge,  as  if  water  ran  aslant  under  it.  But  these  were 
the  falls — these.' — And  it  was  very  probable  that  their 
descent  was  about  as  great  as  Dr.  Morse  had  been  told;  but, 
unluckily,  he  had  forgotten  to  mention  the  distance  includ- 
ed in  that  descent.  It  might  have  been  from  the  source, 
to  tide  water;  or,  to  the  ocean  itself,  for  aught  that  we 
know. 

But  my  disappointment,  here,  was  not  so  great.  I  was 
stunned  and  awed  for  a  time; — and  I  grew  frightfully 
dizzy  in  looking  at  the  frail  contrivance,  by  which  so 
many  precious  creatures  were  accustomed  to  descend, 
into  the  very  whirl  of  the  waters.  Nay,  were  I  not  afraid 
of  being  laughed  at,  I  should  say  that  one  person,  whom 
I  saw  there,  under  the  very  arch  of  the  cataract,  was  the 
deaf  and  dumb  man  that  we  met  in  the  grave-yard!  His 
dress  was  different;  but  his  manner,  an  indescribable 
something,  that  was  about  him,  makes  me  believe  it,  yet, 
in  spite  of  probability.  Is  it  the  love  of  the  marvellous? 
or  the  romantick?  or,  am  I  possessed?  What  should  he 
do  here,  poor  wretch? — I  ask  myself  again,  and  again; 
and  then,  I  feel  a  sensation,  nearly  allied  to  terrour, 
when  I  think  of  his  danger.  Can  it  be  that  he  has  fol- 
lowed us?  If  so,  let  us  be  gone.  I  cannot  endure  the 
thought;  yet  it  constantly  obtrudes  itself.  I  have  taken 
no  notice  of  it,  here;  and  my  father,  I  am  sure,  has  not 
seen  him,  or  does  not  perceive  the  resemblance.  Indeed, 
when  I  began  this,  I  did  not  mean  to  mention  him;  for  I 
was  rather  angry  at  something  that  had  occurred.  At 


132  BANDOLPH, 

first,  I  felt  compassion  for  him;  but. his  pertinacity  has 

provoked  a Bless  me,  cousin,  I  am  speaking  exactly 

as  if  it  were  he,  the  deaf  and  dumb  man,  beyond  a  doubt. 

O,  this  reminds  me  of  some  of  your  nonsense,  John. 
What  meant  you,  some  time  ago,  in  one  of  your  long  let- 
ters, where  you  reasoned,  for  a  moment,  quite  seriously, 
about  the  existence  of  spirits?  Were  you  in  good  earnest? 
If  you  were,  my  resentment,  which  kept  me  from  reply- 
ing, was  just.  Were  you  not  in  earnest?  Then  were 
you  most  unhappy  in  your  pleasj&try; — for  it  has  given 
my  father  an  authority,  that  I  am  sorry  for,  for  believing 
what,  I  am  sure,  was  a  deception  of  the  senses,  the  very 
night  before  my  blessed  mother's  death.  What  shall  I 
say  to  you?  Should  I  be  indignant?  No! — and  my  ad- 
vice is,  neither  to  believe,  nor  disbelieve,  in  such  things, 
on  speculation.  There  may  be  wisdom  in  what  is  unin- 
telligible to  us;— but  I  cannot  believe  that  the  vilest 
creatures  of  the  earth,  all  that  are  about  us,  are  made 
eloquent  with  prophecy,  which  is  utterly  unintelligible. 
Is  not  their  superstition  excessive,  always,  in  proportion 
to  the  rudeness  of  a  people?  Does  it  not,  always,  keep 
pace  with  ignorance?  Assuredly,  it  does.  So,  let  us  say 
no  more  about  it.  But,  if  you  should  see  fit  to  renew  the 
subject,  at  some  future  day,  do  not  let  my  excellent  father 
get  to  the  knowledge  of  it.  It  troubles  him,  I  can  per- 
ceive, more  than  he  is  willing  to  confess. 

And  now,  let  me  return  to  the  falls; — but  no,  I  cannot 
speak  of  them.  I  hate  putting  ones  self  out  in  descrip- 
tion. People  enough  have  described  them,  and  all  have 
failed;  they,  probably,  the  most,  who  have  most  studied 
to  be  fine.  Some  paintings,  and  one,  in  particular, 
by  a  lady  of  Boston,  in  oil,  gave  me  some  notion  of  the 
smoke  and  thunder  that  I  was  to  encounter.  The  sky 
and  the  water  were  all  in  agitation,  as  with  a  great  bat- 
tle. But  all  descriptions  are  mockery.  They  either 
want  indistinctness;  are  so  minute  in  describing  the 
parts,  as  to  prevent  your  obtaining  any  notion  of  the 
whole,  like  Belzoni's  account  of  the  scratching  and  chis- 
eling in  the  pyramids; — or  they  are  inflated  and  ridic- 
ulous, to  an  insupportable  degree.  There  is  a  person, 
who  was  never  there,  too,  but  who  has  been  suppos- 


1UNDCWLPH.  13$ 

cd  to  have  been  there,  by  another,  who  sat  with  his  tes- 
timony in  his  hand,  and  compared  the  poetical  descrip- 
tion with  the  reality;  and  then,  came  away,  wondering 
at  the  faculty  of  observation  in  poets;  and  their  power  of 
seeing  and  touching  out,  what  is  passed  over  with  indif- 
ference, or  utterly  unseen,  by  others! — and — (but  I  can* 
not  finish  the  sentence) — I — . 

O — I  have  just  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  stranger's  face 
— it  is  noble;  not  in  feature,  but  in  expression.  I  shall 
never  forget  it; — he  has  just  past  my  window,  (on  the 
most  beautiful  horse,  that  I  ever  saw — all  in  a  foam.) 

To  return. — I  do  not  know  why  it  is;  but,  from  these 
lines,  particularly  the  four  last,  my  imagination  had 
taken  a  more  faithful  picture  of  the  cataract,  than  from  all 
else  that  I  have  seen;  and  yet,  they  contain  no  picture, 
not  even  an  outline.  All  is  general,  dim,  and  tumultu- 
ous. Were  the  poet  a  painter,  I  suppose  that  he  would 
give  us  Niagara  somewhat  after  this  fashion.  A  glimpse 
only,  of  the  sky;  no  landscape,— no,  he  would  scorn  to 
copy  a  single  line  as  it  is;  but  the  whole  atmosphere 
would  appear  in  commotion;  and  about  the  rocks,  there 
would  be  a  vivid,  quick,  tremulous  outline,  as  if  they 
quaked  and  shivered,  incessantly,  in  the  uproar;  the 
spray  would  be  insupportably  bright;  great  birds,  dash- 
ing hither  and  thither  through  it;  and  the  water  would 
go  up,  like  breakers,  to  the  very  top  of  the  picture. 

"Home  of  the  waters! — where  their  strength 

"Rolls  in  immeasurable  length; 

"Or,  tumbling  from  their  cloudy  thrones, 

"As  thundering  from  a  battlement, 
"With  marshal  hymning,  like  the  tones, 

"Of  battle-shout  by  warriours'  sent, 
"Go,  rioting  in  foam  and  spray, 
"With  rainbow-streamers  o'er  their  way, 

"Beneath  the  precipice  they've  rent; 
"Exulting,  as  they  burst  their  cloud, 
"As  high,  as  dazzling,  and  as  loud, 

"As  sheets  of  light,  in  their  descent 

"Through  midnight's  parting  firmament," 


134  BANDO1PH. 

!•":   -•'•••      ».•  /, 

I  believe,  cousin,  if  you  had  stood  where  1  did,  and 
seen  the  thick  cloud  above — the  blazing  brightness  of 
the  water,  shooting,  all  at  once,  out  of  it,  into  the  sun- 
shine, with  the  tremendous  rausick  of  its  roaring — that 
'you  would  have  clasped  your  hands,  as  1  did,  and  ac- 
knowledged, that  the  madman,  (for,  1  am  told,  that  the  poor 
fellow,  who  wrote  that,  is  mad,)  was  singularly  happy  in 
the  four  last  lines.  The  first  part  would  have  been  bet- 
ter relished  by  me,  if  there  had  been  a  rainbow,  when  I 
was  there; — for,  I  declare  to  you,  the  noise  of  the  thun- 
der was  martial,  like  the  ringing  of  ten  thousand  trum- 
pets— the  rolling  of  ten  thousand  drums — and  artillery 
in  proportion!  Really!  What  do  you  think  of  that? — 
Should' nt  I  make  a  pretty  poet,  with  a  little  encourage- 
ment? 

One  moment  more,  and  then,  good  bye,  to  the  poet  and 
the  poem — the  waters  and  the  thunder — reminding  j^ou 
that  it  was  impossible  to  visit  Niagara,  without  recalling 
somewhat  of  a  work,  put  forth  with  such  a  pretending 
title — Do  you  remember  this?  It  struck  me  very  forci- 
bly. ' 

"Above,  where  the  torrent  is  forth,  in  its  might, 
"Like  an  imprisoned  blaze,  that  is  bursting  from  night! 

"  Or  a  lion,  that  springs — with  a  roar — from  his  lair!— 
"Bounding  oft',  all  in  foam — from  the  echoing  height, 
"Like  a  rank  of  young  war-horses,  terribly  bright — • 

"Their  manes  all  erect,  and  their  hoofs  in  the  air! 
"1  he  earth  shaking  under  them — trumpets  on  high — 
"And  banners  unfurling  away  in  the  sky — 

"With  the  neighing  of  steeds,  and  the  streaming  of  hair! 

No  wonder  that  the  man  is  mad,  cousin,  is  it?  I  have 

followed  his  own  punctuation his  own — indeed; — 

for  there  is  nothing  more  peculiarly  his,  than  his  dash- 
ing. 

But,  let  me  be  done.  That  poor  deaf  and  dumb  man — 
cousin,  I  can't  get  him  out  of  my  head.  He  haunts  me 
like  a  spectre.  Turn  which  way  I  will,  the  first  object 
that  I  catch,  is  a  shadow  like  his,  that,  as  it  cannot  be 
where  I  see  it — must  be  fn  my  own  brain!  Well.  well. 


RANDOLPH.  135 

He'll  have  to  walk  fast,  if  he  keep  up  with  us,  after  to- 
morrow.    We  shall  go  the  battle-ground  next. 


SARAH   RAMSAY. 


EDWARD  MOLTON  TO  GEORGE  STAFFORD. 

The  curiosity  that  you  express,  my  dear  fellow,  is 
altogether  natural.  You  feel,  toward  our  American 
writers,  just  as  I  do  about  your  English  ones.  In  return, 
therefore,  for  your  sketching  of  Byron,  Campbell,  and 
your  study  of  Wordsworth  (whom  I  can  see,  with  his 
smooth  hair,  at  this  moment,)  Hunt,  Coleridge,  &c.  &c. 
with  glimpses,  of  their  conversation  and  hand  writing,  I 
shall  give  you  something  of  the  same  kind,  and  as  much 
after  the  same  plan,  as  I  am  able.  I  will  begin  with 
them  as  they  come  to  me. 

PAUL  ALLEN,  of  Baltimore. — He  is  rather  below  the 
middle  size — say,  about  five  feet  six — dark  eyes — dark 
hair — face,  deeply  marked — a  pla^n  looking,  nay,  an  or- 
dinary looking  man;  about  forty  or  forty  two,  I  should 
think,  with  a  character  of  sluggishness,  slovenly  inapti- 
tude and  moroseness,  all  about  him.  Yet,  there  is  not  a 
better  natured  fellow  on  the  earth — bating  a  momentary 
petulence,  here  and  there,  with  a  far-off  politician,  in  the 
way  of  trade;  or  a  little  fermentation  at  home,  when  he 
has  been  pestered  by  poppinjays,  a  little  too  long;  nor  a 
man  that  will  write  more,  with  less  substantial  informa- 
tion, on  any  subject,  in  the  same  time.  '  He  is  near-sight- 
ed; reads  with  his  nose  on  the  paper — and  such  reading! 
Lord! — I  can  imagine  nothing  more  dismal,  than  the 
reading  of  his  own  poetry,  by  Paul  Alien.  It  is  a  con- 
tinual whine — nasal — and  barbarous,  beyond  all  con- 
ception. No  man  would  take  him  for  any  thing  above  a 
hard-working  tradesman,  should  he  meet  him,  away 
from  his  daily  occupation;  he  is  full  of  simplicity,  cred- 
ulous too,  as  a  child,  and  very  irresolute;  and  yet,  how  he 
writes!  He  has  a  strange  face,  strongly  moulded,  unlike 
any  that  I  have  ever  seen,  in  your  country;  but  very  like 


136  RANDOLPH. 

that  of  Mr.  Jarvis,  the  painter,  in  ours.  He  has  a  fine 
dazzling  talent;  a  penetrating  fidgetty  eloquence;  and 
great  pungency,  all  which  are  continually  to  be  seen  in  his 
prose.  But  he  has  a  bad  notion  of  poetry;  he  is  too  easily 
satisfied  with  bad  rhyming,  inadequate  expression,  and 
ordinary,  simple  thought,  which  he  endeavours  to  touch 
your  heart  \\ith,  after  the  manner  of  Wordsworth,  of 
whom  he  is  a  devout  admirer;  but  their  simplicity  is  to- 
tally unlike.  That  of  Allen  is  never  so  simple,  so  affect- 
ing, or  so  awful,  as  that  of  Wordsworth;  nor  is  it  ever  so 
feeble  and  childish. 

Paul  Allen  is  no  imitator;  or,  rather,  no  imitator  of 
any  one  man;  but  he  is  of  many: — and  there  is  nothing 
beautiful,  sarcastick,  eloquent,  strange,  touching,  or  sub- 
lime, in  another,  which,  when  he  encounters  it,  will  not 
instantly  beget  a  correspondent  expression  in  him.  I  can 
always  tell  what  he  has  been  reading,  when  he  comes  out, 
on  any  uncommon  occasion.  He  is  very  like  Burke,  at 
times;  and  thrpws  away  more  genuine  poetry,  without 
knowing  it,  upon  the  daily  transactions  of  commercial 
and  political  gossipping,  than  any  living  writer;  and 
this,  too,  while  that  which  he  husbands  and  hoards  for 
poetry,  is  often  the  very  refuse  of  an  exhausted  mind; 
the  dregs  and  dross  of  a  crucible,  where  the  gold  and 
fire,  of  earth  and  sky,  have  been  undergoing  the  most 
beautiful  transmutation,  for  the  entertainment  of  child- 
ren. He  is  a  man  that  would  throw  pearls  and  diamonds 
into  the  furnace,  to  see  what  colour  their  smoke  would 
be;  and  then  gather  up  the  ashes  and  cinders;  put  them 
carefully  by,  in  a  golden  urn,  write  thereon;  with  all  his 
might,  a  deep  and  sad  inscription  to  the  emptiness  and 
mutability  of  all  earthly  enjoyment — and  fall  asleep  with 
it  in  his  arms.  He  has  no  colloquial  power — yet  the 
company  of  few  people  is  more  pleasant,  to  them  that 
know  him  intimately. 

He  has  written,  successively,  for  the  United  States'  Ga- 
'zette; — the  Port  Folio,  before  it  was  dead  and  damned; 
— the  Baltimore  Telegraph,  of  which  he  was  the  Editor 
for  many  years,  when  it  was  in  the  zenith; — the  PORTICO; 
— a  poem,  called  NOAH; — and  volume  after  volume,  of  edi- 
torial matter,  for  the  JOURNAL  or  THE  TIMES,  and  the 
MORNING  CHRONICLE. 


I 


ANDOLPH.  187 

He  was  born  in  Providence,  Rhode  Island,  and  edu- 
»  cated  for  the  bar: — writes  a  sort  of  jumping,   up  and 
down  hand — which  nobody  but  himself,  and  his  composi- 
tors, can  read. 

WASHINGTON  IRVING. — He  is  about  thirty-nine,  now 
— about  five  feet,  six  or  seven  inches  in  height — a  little 
clumsy — very  pale — fine  blue  eyes,  continually  shifting 
through  shadow  and  light — very  white  teeth — and  a 
charming  smile — very  black  hair,  and  heavy  black  eye- 
brows; with  all  the  air  of  your  old  fashioned,  high  bred 
gentleman; — by  that,  I  mean  not,  that  he  is  old  fashioned, 
in  the  common  meaning  of  the  phrase;  but,  that  he  is  a 
gentleman,  without  being  a  puppy.  He  is  neither  a  maca- 
roni— dandy — exquisite — nor  corinthian,  names  which 
mean  the  same  thing,  through  all  the  successive  changes 
of  folly,  from  the  time  of  Queen 'Anne,  to  the  present. 
His  manner  is  full  of  composure  and  gentleness.  He  was 
educated  for  the  bar; — was  born  in  New- York — a  few 
miles  from  the  city,  I  believe, — made  two  or  three  at- 
tempts at  the  bar — and  abandoned  the  profession,  in  des- 
pair, from  a  total  inability  to  undergo  the  coarse,  and 
continual  exasperation  of  conflict  and  rivalry.  His 
friends  have  thought  his  modesty  and  timidity  a  disquali- 
fication— stuff!  The  proiehsion  of  the  law  is  the  best  mar- 
ket in  the  world  for  both;  and,  to  my  notion,  it  argues 
no  great  degree  of  modesty — whatever  people  may  say 
of  Cowper — Curran — Garrick,  before  the  court  as  a  wit- 
ness— Mr.  Bayard  of  Delaware — or  Mr.  Irving  of  New- 
York—  that  each  and  all  of  them,  were  overwhelmed 
with  confusion  in  their  first  attempt  at  speaking,  in  a 
-new  situation.  To  my  thought,  it  looks  much  more  like 
the  natural  effect,  of  entertaining  too  high  an  opinion  of 
one's  self.  He,  who  believes  that  all  eyes  are  upon  him 
— that  every  thing  is  expected  from  him — that  no  allow- 
ances will  be  made  for  inexperience,  embarrassment  and 
alarm — must  fail. — But  he,  who  is  modest  enough,  not  to 
attempt  a  miracle — nor  to  expect  that  others  are  looking 
for  one,  will  be  likely  to  succeed. 

Washington  Irving  is,  emphatically,  an  amiable  man, 
without  being  a  weak  one.     He  takes  every  thing—  short 


138  RANDOLPH. 

-.£•/  >' 

of  what  would  darken  the  heart  of  any  human  creature, 
disappointment  in  love,  or  fame,  or  ambition — all  in  good, 
part;  and  even  the  rest,  he  takes  like  one,  that  is  too  good 
— not  too  proud,  to  repine.  In  early  life,  I  have  heard  it 
said,  that  he  lost  the  woman  of  his  heart,  by  death.  That 
were  enough  to  account  for  the  beautiful  shadow  that 
abides,  forever  and  ever,  upon  the  landscape  of  his  affec- 
tion. His  manner  and  style  are  his  own.  He  is  precisely 
among  authors,  what  your  Westall  is  among  painters.  I 
cannot  imagine,  and  do  not  know  a  truer  parallel. 

He  has  written  part  of  Salmagundi — Knickerbocker's 
New- York — Biographical  Sketches  of  the  American 
Naval  Commanders,  during  the  last  war — the  Sketch- 
Book,  and  Bracebridge  Hall — with  sundry  little  things, 
"Recollections  of  a  Student"  in  the  New  Monthly — and 
some  criticism  on  Campbell,  in  a  very  sensible  way. 

PAULDING. — A  little,  slender,  sharp,  dark-looking 
man,  with  an  expression  of  habitual  discontent  in  his  eyes 
— strong  natural  talent — and  a  happy,  though  not  a  fine 
turn,  for  sober  irony  and  sarcasm.  You  would  swear 
that  he  was  forever  fretting,  and  quarrelling  at  the  heart, 
with  all  the  world — from  the  very  countenance  of  the 
man — and  that  it  never  could  be  otherwise.  He  is  the 
very  opposite  of  Irving,  with  whom  he  was  associated  in 
making  up  Salmagundi;  and  not  at  all  companionable, 
or  social.  There  is  an  air  of  constitutional  disdain  of 
the  world — with  a  great  deal  of  artificial  disdain,  for 
that  very  world,  which  he  is  continually  courting,  indi- 
rectly,— in  all  that  he  does  and  says.  Yet  I  would 
trust  to  his  heart,  I  think,  rather  than  to  Irving's,  if  I 
wanted  a  friend  that  would  go  to  the  devil  for  me.  He  is  a 
fellow  of  strong  mind — witbout  brilliancy — and  a  little — 
a  very  little  playfulness:  but  a  homebred  talent— vigor- 
ous— pure  and  lasting.  He  has  written  a  good  deal — 
only  a  part  of  which,  I  can  now  call  to  mind — the  Back- 
woodsman (a  poem)  a  satirical  novel,  telling  the  story 
of  our  revolution — part  of  Salmagundi— and  "Letters 
from  the  South."  He  was  born  in  Connecticut,  New- 
England. 


. 

RANDOLPH.  139 

NEALE. — It  is  impossible  to  know  this  man  well.     I 
have  taken  a  good  deal  of  pains  to  understand  his  char- 
acter, from  those  who  have  seen  him,  every  day,  for  ma- 
ny years;  but  no  two  of  them  seem  to  have  the  same  opin- 
ion of  him.     By  some  he  is  thought  to  be  all  that  is  bad — 
short  of  being  an  outlaw;  by  others,  all  that  is  noble  and 
high  of  heart.     The  majority,  by  a  thousand  to  one,  are 
of  the  former  opinion.     I  confess,  that  he  is  continually 
baffling  me,  in  my  estimate,  not  only  of  him,  but  of  his  tal- 
ents, they  are  so  various,  contradictory,  and  capricious. 
Yet,  I  do  believe  that  he  has  great  power,  and  a  good  heart, 
which,  if  it  be  not  dampened  by  continual  disappointment; 
and  kept  down  by  a  mighty  pressure,  at  the  hazard  of 
crushing  all  its  principles  of  vitality,  will  either  purify 
itself,  at  last,  in  its  own  fires,  or  be  consumed  to  ashes. 
Nay — there  are  those  who  expect  to  see  it  fall  in,  every 
hour,  alleging  that  it  has  been  for  many  years,  inwardly 
consuming.  He  is  a  yankee  too — a  self  educated  man — 
born  in  Massachusetts  or  Maine — whose  whole  life  has 
been  a  tissue  of  wild  and  beautiful  adventure.     He  was 
horn  of  poor  parents;  put  apprentice  to  a  shopkeeper, 
without  education — ran  the  gauntlet,  it  is  said,  through 
half  a  dozen  professions;  and,  finally,  at  the  age  of  twen- 
ty three  or  four,  sat  himself  down  to  study  the  law,  with- 
out, at  that  time,  understanding  the  rudiments  of  Eng- 
lish grammar. 

He  is  about  five  feet,  eight  or  nine^-well  made — light 
brown  hair,  light  complexion;  small,  clear,  serene,  blue 
eyes — large  mouth — very  high  forehead — stooping  in  his 
gait; — about  thirty  now,  with  a  settled  expression  of 
haughtiness,  and  proud  discontent-in  his  very  tread-look, 
and  tone.  His  eyes  are  full  of  it — his  forehead  is  full  of 
it — his  voice — nay,  every  thing  about  him,  gives  note  of 
an  unquiet  spirit,  continually  at  her  incantations.  Rouse 
him,  and  you  hear  his  voice,  like  an  alarum  in  your 
blood.  He  is  certainly  unamiable — and,  in  the  opinion 
of  women,  very  ungenteel; — exceedingly  positive,  loud, 
abrupt,  and  imperious;  and  yet,  I  am  told  that  no  human 
creature  is  gentler — or  fuller  of  frolick — or  more  of  a 
boy,  than  he,  when  he  is  at  home  with  them  that  have 
long  known  him.  His  contempt  for  the  world  is  more 


140  RANDOLPH. 

natural  than  that  of  any  other  man,  whom  I  ever  knew; 
yet  even  his,  I  am  sure,  is  partly  affected.  Else  why 
that  continual  effort  for  the  notice  of  the  world?  Why 
so  ambitious? — studious? — headlong?  Men  may  say 
what  they  will  about  being  above  the  opinion  of  the  world. 
They  cannot  be  so.  Such  men  would  instantly  die. — 
They  could  not  live  for  a  moment  in  a  world,  about  whose 
opinion  they  cared  nothing;  they  would  be  like  some  an- 
imal in  an  exhausted  receiver.  They  would  ascend  to 
the  skies  by  their  own  levity — their  own  impalpability* 
The  law  of  attraction  could  not  operate  upon  such  spirit- 
ualities. No — no — the  flame  of  ambition  cannot  burn  for 
a  moment,  where  the  breath  of  the  world  cannot  reach  it; 
and,  wherever  you  see  an  ambitious  man,  you  may  be 
sure,  that  you  have  misunderstood  him,  or  that  he  lied, 
when  he  talked  about  a  carelessness  of  the  world's  opin- 
ion. They  say  that  he  is  overbearing  and  quarrelsome; 
and,  if  so,  of  course,  he  is  cowardly.  The  public  opin- 
ion is  very  much  against  him — so  far,  I  mean,  as  mere 
popularity  will  go; — but,  the  most  that  1  can  learn  of 
evil  in  his  character,  except  what  is  to  be  inferred  from 
general  prejudice,  I  should  be  inclined  to  think  had 
grown  out  of  his  haughty  temper;  his  vanity;  his  unwil- 
lingness to  soothe  and  conciliate,  what  he  calls  the  rabble; 
and  a  wounded  and  impatient  spirit,  sore  with  continual 
buffeting — gored  into  warfare — and  determined  never  to 
yield.  I  ask  them  if  he  is  melancholy — low  spirited — or 
troubled  with  ill-health,  like  other  men  of  a  literary  or 
poetical  habit.  But  I  am  told  that  he  is  never  melancholy; 
never  low-spirited — that  he  is  never  more  than  serious, 
angry,  or  stern; — sustained  by  unexhaustible  animal  spi- 
rits— and  never  sick. If  such  be  the  case,  he  may  do 

something  to  redeem  himself,  after  all.  Let  him  learn  a 
little  discretion — subdue  his  hot  temper — hurry  less,  in 
his  manifestation  of  feeling,  and — who  knows  if  he  may 
not  die  a  very  decent  sort  of  a  man. 

He  has  written  more  books,  I  believe,  than  are  either 
known  or  read.  He  can  write  a  variety  of  hands — 
and,  in  a  variety  of  styles — but  does,  generally,  write  in 
a  fluent,  illegible,  positive,  perpendicular  scrawl;-and  in 
a  style  overflowing  with  start  and  turbulence.  I  have 


• 
RANDOLPH.  141 

seen  a  few  pages,  I  confess,  of  his,  that  were  full  of  a  deep, 
quiet  beauty;  but,  in  general,  I  would  as  soon  think  of  amus- 
ing myself,  with  a  regiment  of  your  horse  guards,  each 
blowing  his  own  trumpet  with  both  hands,  and  galloping 
about  me,  continually  over  a  cast-iron  pavement,  as  with 
one  of  his  furious  set-to's9  in  what  I  dare  say,  he  thinks 
fine  writing. 

He  wrote  KEEP  COOL;  NIAGARA;  GOLDAU;  OTHO;  and 
was  editor  of  the  TELEGRAPH,  and  one  of  the  editors  of 
the  PORTICO,  I  have  heard,  for  a  long  time.  Some  other 
works  are  attributed  to  him. 

EVERETT. — This  young  gentleman,  with  a  counte- 
nance like  a  boy,  and  the  ambition  of  a  giant,  is  about 
five  feet,  seven;  reddish  browTn  hair,  smoothed  aslant  over 
his  forehead;  and  fine  eyes.  He  is  at  the  head  of  the 
Everett  school — a  body  of  foolish  young  men,  who  have 
counterfeited  his  gesture,  tone,  carriage,  and  manner  of 
wearing  his  hair.  He  is  a  man  of  fine  talent — great  pe- 
dantry;—a  rambling  sort  of  imagination,  and  a  sickly 
taste  for  the  ancient  and  obsolete.  He  is  now  the  main 
conductor  of  the  North  American;  or,  rather,  the  head 
of  a  class,  made  up  of  rich  young  blockheads,  whose  fa- 
thers were  rich  old  blockheads;  patricians,  graduated  and 
patented,  by  the  lump,  at  the  University  of  Cambridge, 
who  have  been  endured  by  the  publick,  in  the  high  places 
of  literature,  till  they  really  believe  that  they  have  a 
right  there. — He  was  a  clergyman,  and  would  be  a  poli- 
tician. .1  know  nothing  more  of  him.  His  works  are 
brief  essays  on  Architecture — Theology—  -Greece — Him- 
self—and matters  and  things  in  general.  Heisayankee, 
too,  about  thirty.  He  has  a  brother,  who,  I  am  told,  is 
quite  a  poet—and  an  adventurer,  in  the  most  heroick 
meaning  of  the  term. 

PIERPOXT. — This  man  is  six  feet  high — thin — black 
hair — bushy  eyebrows — dark,  expressive  eyes — about 
thirty-eight  or  forty — writes  a  hand  like  copperplate — 
talks  remarkably  well — but  rather  too  sensibly — makes 
poetry  in  the  same  way,  generally: — an  imitator  of , 
Campbell,  Beattie,  and  Darwin — with  a  talent  equal,  if 


142  "RANDOLPH. 

not  superiour,  to  either — and  has  been  satisfied  with  do- 
ing about  a  thousand  lines  of  very  pure,  agreeable,  quiet 
rhyming,  with,  here  and  there,  a  magnificent  burst  of 
light,  or  a  vivid  picture,  sparkling  with  regular  vivacity 
— as  much  out  of  place—  nine  times  out  of  ten — as  an 
eruption  of  rockets  would  be,  at  a  concert  of  flutes  and 
pianos,  where  people  look  rather  for  "bottled  velvet/' 
than  Champaigne.  He  is  a  clergyman,  now — was  a 
merchant — after  practising  as  a  lawyer; — born  in  Con- 
necticut, New -England.  Thus  you  perceive  that  our 
literary  men  here,  are  nearly  all  New-Englanders,  or 
YANKEES — and,  generally,  under  the  middle  size. 

DANA. — Here  is  another  of  the  amiable  school,  who, 
of  late  years,  have  made  pure  poetry  so  very  common- 
place; and  all  the  pestilent  inquietudes  of  life,  so  beauti- 
ul,  in  their  patient  yielding  to  them,  that  we  have  no 
heart  to  pity  a  n^an,  though  he  be  dying  in  a  consump- 
tion, when  we  have  once  heard  the  comfort  and  consola- 
tion, attendant  upon  such  a  death,  described  by  Percival 
or  Dana.  He  is  a  yankee — light  hair— light  blue  eyes — 
middle  stature — feeble  of  health— and  author  of  the  IDLE 
MAN,  a  work  of  uncommon  merit.  He  was  the  editor 
of  the  North  American: — and  was  turned  out, for  writing 
the  best  thing  that  ever  appeared  in  it — a  review  of  your 
Hazletton  the  British  poets.  Dana  is  a  poet — but  not 
one  of  them  that  dazzle  and  confound  you,  by  their  eagle 
flights — rushing,  headlong,  through  the  skies — nestling 
among  the  stars — and  roosting  with  constellations.  He 
is  more  swan-like;  contented  with  floating  over  the  blue 
waters  of  the  wilderness,  through  sun  and  shadow,  star- 
light and  cloud — gathering  wild  flowers  with  his  bosom, 
•while  he  is  drifting  down  the  current — till  he  falls  asleep 
in  the  ambush  of  his  own  nest — an  entrenchment  of  water 
lilies  and  flowering  weeds.  He  too,  was  educated  for 
he  bar. 

PERCIVAX — I  don't  know.  But  I  hear  that  he  is  fee- 
ble of  health— has  been  a  doctor — a  lawyer — and  is  about 
to  be  an  editor.  He  is  a  Connecticut  man,  too. 

WALSH— Is  a  small,  cold,  sober,  quaker-looking  crea- 


RANDOLPH.  143 

ture,  having  a  good  deal  of  unaffected  simplicity  about 
him,  with  a  face  well  characterised;  and,  I  should  think, 
from  the  expression,  a  very  good  sort  of  a  man.  But 
more  of  him,  by  and  bye.  He  is  about  five  feet,  six — 
rather  deaf— pale — dark  hair  and  eyes — wears  specta- 
cles— talks  like  a  book,  but  without  passion — and  seems, 
generally,  a  good  deal  dissatisfied  with  all  the  world. — 
I  do  not  know  him  well— personally,  I  mean.  He  is  a 
Marylander;  and  was  intended  for  the  bar. 

WAITER. — This  young  man  was  little  known.  He 
had  a  brilliant,  but  confused  beauty,  at  his  heart; — a 
great  deal  of  downright  poetry,  and  was  one  of  the  most 
elegant  men,  in  his  manners,  that  I  ever  saw.  1  met  him 
once  in  Boston.  He  was  educated  for  the  ministry;  but 
there  was  more  of  the  man  of  the  world,  in  all  his  doings 
and  sayings,  than  of  one  who  should  be  set  apart  from  it. 
His  character  was  not  fully  developed  when  he  died,  al- 
though it  was  at  the  age  of  twenty-six  or  twenty-seven. 
He  was  five  feet,  ten,  at  least — light  brown  hair — large 
hazleeyes — and  a  fine  melancholy  face.  He  wrote  SUXEY, 
and  some  smaller  poems.  He  was  born  in  Boston,  and 
educated  at  Harvard. 

Good  bye — I  must  throw  by  my  pencil. 

E.  MOLTON. 

I  have  opened  this  again,  to  add  a  P.  S. 

P.  S. — A  friend  of  mine,  (I  am  sure  that  I  know  the 
fellow,  for  nobody  on  earth  dares  to  talk  like  him,)  has 
just  been  giving  your  counsellor  Phillips  a  dressing.  I 
Happened,  accidentally,  as  I  was  about  to  fold  this,  to 
cast  my  eye  upon  the  breakfast  table,  where  several  pa- 
pers and  letters  had  just  been  left,  by  the  penny  post;  my 
eyes  were  attracted  to  a  newspaper,  by  a  column,  that 
appeared  to  be  made  up  of  dashes,  and  exclamations. 
I  took  up  the  paper — read  it — (it  was  the  New  England 
Galaxy — a  newspaper,  of  which  the  editor,  a  precious 
chap— is  one  of  our  best  and  bravest,  although,  to  be  sure, 
the.*-  do  call  him  a  blackguard.)  I  knew  the  article  im- 
mediately, and  enclose  it,  herewith,  for  your  arnusnient. 
Tell  me,  if  you  do  not  think  the  said  counsellor,  and  the 
said  counsellor's  letter  to  the  king,  fairly  treated.  Phil- 


144  RANDOLPH, 

lips,  I  hold  to  be  a  compound  of  effort,  imitation  and  pre- 
tence. Look  at  his  imitations  of  Curran's  playfulness, 
and  pleasantry;  sarcasm  and  sublimity.  What  monstrous 
carricatures  they  are.  If  Curran  happen  to  be  guilty 
of  the  possessive  case,  or  of  alliteration,  Phillips  will  never 
be  contented  with  less  than  a  speech-full  of  both.  If  Curran 
speak  of  a  buoyant  pestilence,  Phillips,  on  the  first  pre- 
tence, gives  one  a  particular  description  of  it,  with  the 
harbour  regulations,  and  quarantine  laws;  all  in  superfine 
poetry.  If  Curran  happen  to  quote  a  line  of  an  old  song, 
in  some  case  of  crim.  con.  we  are  sure  tohear,  line  after  line, 
song  after  song,  from  the  counsellor,  on  the  first  case  of 
crim.  con.  that  he  has  the  misfortune  to  be  retained  in; 
and  that,  too,  with  an  inaptitude  of  illustration,  so  mis- 
erably conspicuous  and  obtrusive,  that  one  cannot  help 
pitying  him.  If  Curran,  roused  and  inflamed  with  in- 
dignation, discharges  his  great  heart,  in  one  volley  of 
tempestuous  heat,  which  terrifies  and  confounds  us,  like 
an  exploding  thunder-bolt,  the  counsellor  is  sure  to  light- 
en at  us,  all  day  long,  when  ever  the  title  of  the  cause  is 
the  same — for  any  resemblance  is  precedent  enough  for 
him — yet,  his  lightning  is  never  the  sudden  combustion 
of  a  great  bosom,  devoutly  conscious  of  being  inhabited 
by  the  Divinity,  and  exasperated  with  the  goading  and 
heat  of  its  continual  presence,  into  an  unexpected  erup- 
tion— but  it  is  what  we  may  call,  a  genteel  illumination — 
a  transparency — not  the  battle  itself — but  a  picture  of 
it,  beautifully  illuminated,  with  coloured  gas — not  the 
flash  of  the  firmament,  darkened  with  evolving  thunder 
clouds,  but  set  thick  with  glow  worms  and  Chinese 
crackers.  If  Curran  but  take  up  the  naked  heart  of 
some  scoundrel  witness;  prepare  to  penetrate  and  explore 
it,  even  to  the  place  where  the  black  drop  is  lurking; 
dazzling  and  blinding  us  all  the  while,  with  the  inces- 
sant play  of  a  weapon,  whose  unspeakable  brightness 
and  edge,  makes  our  blood  tremble,  counsellor  Phillips 
will  be  sure  to  get  hold  of  somebody's  heart,  no  matter 
whose,  nor  when, nor  where — and  all  the  while,  flourish- 
ing his  dainty  fingers  about,  like  a  lecturer  upon  nose- 
gavs,  set  it  all  round  with  surgical  instruments,  and  fire 
works — 'till  it  logk  like  a  cutler's  shop,  on  a  birth  night  j 


RANDOLPH.  145 

a  steel  porcupine;  or  a  barber's  cushion,  in  a  "new  estab- 
lishment." 

Counsellor  Philips  always  appears  to  me,  when  he  is 
in  a  transport  of  eloquence,  to  be  transported,  secundum 
artem.  He  has  persuaded  himself,  I  am  afraid,  that 
losing  one's  subject  in  a  speech,  is  equivalent  to  losing 
ones-self.  I  never  can  get  the  notion  out  of  my  head, 
when  1  hear  him,  (you  have  not  forgotten  the  dinner  at 
Brimstone  Hall,  and  his  oration,  in  reply  to  a  toast  from 
Carter)  that  he  has  committed  a  speech  to  memory — 
and  that,  happen  what  may,  he  will  be  delivered  of  it. 
And  yet,  say  what  he  will,  and  how  he  will,  I  am  always 
in  a  sort  of  perplexity  about  his  design; — and  troubled, 
too,  with  a  kind  of  insupportable  gossipping  pity  and 
compassion — that  wants  the  dignity  of  interest — just  as 
if  1  were  listening  to  a  human  creature,  who  was 
continually  exposing  himself,  without  suspecting  it;  to 
some  poor  fellow,  who,  having  no  command  over  him- 
self, his  thought,  language,  or  organs  of  utterance,  in 
publick,  comes  into  a  place  where  he  is  not  wanted,  after 
having  prepared  himself,  brimful,  of  the  wine  and  bright- 
ness of  a  great  speech,  for  a  great  occasion — has  begun  to 
deliver  it — exactly  as  he  did  not  intend  to — saying  just 
what  he  meant  not  to  say — and,  in  a  tone  of  voice  entire- 
ly different  from  what  he  intended-— so  as  to  give  to  sar- 
casm the  force  of  explanation;  and  to  playfulness  the  ac- 
cent or  outcry  rather  of  a  belaboured  heart—  jumbling 
all  together— pell-mell — "pump  or  no  pump"  as  Salma- 
gundi says. 

Such  are  my  notions  of  this  man.  I  have  often  ex- 
pressed them— -and,  allowing  a  little  for  exaggeration,  I 
think  that  my  good  friend  here,  in  rubbing  down  the 
counsellor,  has  had  an  eye  to  some  of  my  extravagancies, 
at  the  same  time.  What  think  you,  Stafford?  Is  it  not 
a  good  deal  in  my  manner?  A  little  caricatured,  per- 
haps; but,  nevertheless,  very  like  me. 

COUNSELLOR  PHILLIPS. — With  feelings  of  indigna- 
tion that  we  cannot  suppress,  and  that  no  honest  man, 
who  looks  earnestly  to  the  growth  of  a  sound  judgment 
among  our  young  men,  ought  to  suppress,  even  if  he  could, 


146  RANDOLPH. 

have  we  risen  from  the  "LETTER  OF  COUNSELLOR  PHIL- 
LIPS  TO  THE  KIKG."  Who  can  endure  such  stuff?  Some 
nun ,  but  who  can  listen  to  the  shameless,  tasteless,  un- 
thinking and  profligate  applause  that  is  lavished  upon  it. 
What  is  it?  \>  hat  are  all  his  speeches?— N  othing  more 
nor  less  than  this — Splendid  rigmarole — entangled  and 
glittering  rhapsody — without  argument,  without  sinew, 
without  bone,  muscle  or  arrangement — a  shining  and  fan  j 
tastick  assemblage  of  rattle-traps  and  pastework. 

Do  we  deny  Charles  Phillips  genius?  No — but  it  is 
the  genius  of  delirium  and  infatuation.  He  is  merely — 
merely  a  genius — he  is  destitute  of  talent.  There  is  the 
bloom  and  the  incense,  but  not  the  stamina  of  the  true 
flower.  He  is  a  poet  too —  and  his  poetry  is  prose,  and  his 
prose  poetry. 

Has  he  passion?  No — He  is  only  an  actor — an  actor 
too,  who,  were  he  playing  the  very  Lears  of  the  drama — 
sweating  in  agony  beneath  the  load  of  his  humiliation — 
aye,  in  the  very  tempest  and  whirlwind  of  his  passion, 
would  be  completely  disconcerted,  if  a  feather  swayed 
awry,  or  the  moon  went  up  the  heavens  iw-picturesquely. 

He  has  been  compared  to  Cumw/— He!  to  Curran!— • 
"Hyperion  to  a  Satyr."  Powers  of  Eloquence!  What  has 
he  of  the  Curran?  of  his  wit!  his  genius?  flashing  its  hv 
raciiations  forever  and  ever? — What  of  his  all- elevating 
eloquence?  What  of  his  passionate  and  tempestuous  en- 
thusiasm, that  lifted  up  and  swept  away,  as  with  the  over- 
powering authority  of  inspiration,  all  hearts  and  heads, 
all  judgments,  spirits  and  intellects. 

Curran  was  a  LAWYER.  Phillips  is  not — and  cannot 
be.  He  wants  the  edge — the  adamant — all  the  powers  of 
analysis — and  de  composition.  He  wants  other  faculties. 
Curran's,  it  is  true,  was  not  the  lawyer-like  attitude  o  f 
a  colossus;  eternal — immoveable;  but  it  might  have 
been.  It  was  not,  because  he  smote,  and  toiled,  and 
battled  for  a  nobler,  higher  and  more  glorious  elevation; 
for  that  of  the  advocate. 

Curran  was  an  ADVOCATE.  The  explosions  of  his  elo- 
quence— unpremeditated—unlocked  for— were,  as  if  Paul, 
in  the  midst  of  Mars-Hill,  or  where  he  shook  Agrip- 
pa  upon  his  throne — had  stretched  forth  his  arm, 


RANDOLPH.  147 

— and  cried,  behold! — and  as  if,  then — in  the  east,  or  in 
the  west,  or  wherever  he  had  pointed,  some  apparition 
had  suddenly  stood  up,  with  its  forehead  in  the  sky— or 
chariots  and  horsemen  were  thundering  in  the  air. 

But  Charles  Phillips!— could  he  do  such  things? — 
Never.  The  most  fearful  charm  that  he  ever  wrought 
before  the  heart  of  man,  in  mystery,  passion,  or  enthu- 
siasm, was  the  sickening,  baby  incantation  of  the  nur- 
sery.— compared  to  Curran: — the  contemptible  trash  of 
the  witches  of  Macbeth,  divested  of  its  ferocious  truth,  and 
sparkling  with  conceit,  compared  with  the  wizard  sum- 
moning of  Prospero,  in  his  cave,  when  the  moon  stands 
still  in  the  sky — and  the  round  earth  quivers  to  the  cen- 
tre. 

Curran  always  forgot  himself.  Phillips  never.  Cur- 
ran  was  an  orator — Phillips  a  rhetorician.  Cumin  could 
hold  you,  in  spite  of  yourself,  till  all  your  faculties  were 
gasping.  Phillips  never  even  intoxicates  you — never  el- 
evates you — never  makes  you  forget,  either  him,  or  your- 
self. And  yet  Charles  Phillips  has  been  classed — yes, 
yes! — Charles  Phillips! — with  John  Philpot  Cui-ran.  As 
I  hope  for  mercy,  the  only  thing  I  know  in  favour  of 
counsellor  Phillips  is,  that  John  Philpot  Curran  used  to 
permit  him  to  sit  at  his  table. 

Curran  rode  the  thoroughly  trained  war-horse — hoof, 
muscle  and  limb  for  the  trial — husbanding  his  wind — his 
great  heart  quaking  to  meet  the  battle.  Phillips  frisks 
"about  upon  an  ill-broken  colt,  eternally  kicking  up  his  heels 
and  entangling  his  hoofs  in  his  trappings  and  finery — or 
running  himself  to  death,  like  Bucephalus,  from  a  sha- 
dow. Curran  is  an  eagle — breaking  through  the  thick- 
est cloud,  with  one  clap  of  his  resounding  pinions — wash- 
ing— purifying — drenching  himself  in  the  fiercest  element 
of  heaven — a  spirit  baptized  in  fire— Phillips — -O,  what  is 
Charles  Phillips — a  hair  brained  poet — a  humming  bird, 
a  glittering  insect,  bathed  in  dew,  revelling  in  perfume, 
sparkling  from  head  to  tail,  with  twinkling  ornament — 
and  buzzing  and  blundering  about,  without  aim  or  object, 
except  to  be  heard  and  seen. 

And  yet  Charles  Phillips's  speeches  are  spoken  of,  as — 
the  creation  of  feeling  and  eloquence.     God  of  heaven! 


148 

what  a  profanation.  Feeling!— the  man  never  felt  ex- 
cept for  a  mis-printed  sentence — or  an  unmusical  termina- 
tion. His  feeling  is  mawkish  sentimentality — the  whim- 
peri  ng,lack-a-daisical  stuff  of  song  books.— Not  the  loud 
pulsation  of  a  heart  suffocating  in  its  own  thought — fes- 
tering in  its  own  indignation,  or  dissolving  in  the  sym- 
pathy of  godlike  natures.  His  eloquence! — it  is  froth'and 
flummery.  His  style  of  writing  holds  about  the  same  re- 
lation to  Eloquence,  that  the  tones  of  a  Cremona  do,  to  the 
rolling  organ  or  the  rattling  thunder. 

Look  at  the  effect.  Hear  Curran  for  a  moment — on  he 
goes,  fearless  and  proud  in  his  stepping,  his  heart  gushing 
out  with  the  pure  element  of  his  thought — suddenly  his  eye 
quickens!  it  flashes  fire!  his  form  contracts — his  action  is 
hurried — an  overwhelming  burst  of  eloquence  succeeds! 
— filling  all  hearts,  shaking  all  bosoms,  thrilling  every 
artery  of  your  frame — as  if  a  cloud  had  passed  over  your 
heads,  for  a  moment,  charged  with  the  electricity  and  the 
reverberation  of  heaven.  You  look  back  upon  your  feel- 
ings. You  are  on  a  dizzy  and  perilous  height — but  you 
can  trace  your  course — you  can  see  how  you  got  there. 
You  are  not  ashamed  of  your  nature — or  of  yourself — 
you  are  proud  of  the  transport  that  you  have  felt;  glad  that 
you  were  capable  of  acting  and  thinking  with  such  gen- 
erous madness: — and  glorying  in  your  relationship  to  a 
creature,  so  capable  of  moving  heaven  and  earth,  as  it 
would  seem. 

But  how  is  it  with  Phillips.  You  rise,  heated— not  by 
overwrought  enthusiasm — but  heated,  and  feverish, 
ashamed  of  yourself,  emasculated,  dastardly;  with  a  gen- 
eral sense  of  weariness,  lassitude  and  oppression,  as  of 
excessive  indulgence,  satiety  and  self  dissatisfaction — as 
one  would  feel,  who  had  broken  a  tedious  fast  upon  sweet- 
meats,— or  been  imprisoned  all  night  long  with  singing 
birds— in  some  milliners  shop. 

^  Let  CuBiiAN  be  summoned  from  his  grave.  Bid  him 
walk  into  the  council  chamber  of  his  sovereign,  and  lift 
up  his  voice  in  behalf  of  the  woman  of  sorrow. 

Would  you  hear  any  of  this  endless  sing-song—see  any 
of  this  eternal  twinkling — or  metaphor  and  foppery?  No. 
You  would  not  see  a  creature  decked  out  in  tinsel  and 


RANDOLPH.  149 

paste -work,  from  head  to  foot,  perpetually  writhing 
himself  into  attitudes — and  flourishing  his  arms,  and 
nodding  his  head,  merely  because,  when  he  nodded,  there 
was  a  scintillation  of  spangles  about  his  "  baby  brow" — 
and  because  when  he  tossed  his  arms  upward,  his  robe 
threw  out  a  few  changeable  corruscations,  for  the  mob  to 
wonder  at! — No! — But  you  would  hear  a  deep  voice — an 
awful  silence  would  surround  you — every  pulsation  of 
your  heart  would  be  counted.  You  would  see  a  man,  stand- 
ing like  the  prophet  when  he  rebuked  the  waters;  and  the 
kingly  tides  went  rolling  backward,  encumbered  with 
horse  and  horsemen,  banner  and  chariot.  You  would  see  a 
hand- writing  upon  the  sky — and  you  would  believe,  whil 
you  heard  in  imagination,  the  Angel,  the  Exterminator 
placing  his  foot  upon  the  East  and  upon  the  West,  and 
preparing  to  pour  out  his  vial — you  would  believe  that 
"already"  the,  kingdom  had  departed  from  George — and 
the  sceptre  from  the  house  of  Hanover.  You  would  stand 
too — like  him  of  old-— who  saw  his  fellow  man  swept 
upward  to  the  everlasting  skies,  in  a  whirlwind  of  dust 
and  fire — you  would  be  prostrate  and  breathless— bowed 
down,  and  blind  with  apprehension  and  dismay.  Thus 
would  you  feel,  were  Curran  to  address  his  sovereign. 
But  how  feel  you  now,  when  Phillips  does  this?  Oh,  it  is 
sacrilege  to  compare  such  men! 


JOHN    OMAR    TO    SARAH    RAMSAY. 

I  have  been  away  ever  since  the  night  when  I  saw  Mol- 
ton;  and  I  have  just  left  him  again,  having  heard  the  rest 
of  his  story.  Will  you  hear  it?  You  say,  if  I  remem- 
ber right,  that  his  first  offence  was stay,  I  will  refer 

to  the  letter  itself;  lay  it  open  before  me,  and  answer  it, 
in  my  usual  way,  line  by  line. 
*##=*##*##        * 

Sarah — you  must  wait.  1  have  lost  your  letters, — or, 
what  is  worse,  left  them  in  Molton's  study.  What  if  he 

should  see  them! 1  will  go  this  instant* 

O 


150  RANDOLPH. 

Heaven  be  praised!  Sarah — I  have  them  again — un- 
touched— unprofaned.  Molton  had  followed  me  out,  it 
appears:  and  there  lay  the  letters,  folded,  one  within  the 
other,  just  as  I  left  them,  on  the  table.  I  beg  ten  thous- 
and pardons  for  my  carelessness — but  I  was  afraid  to  leave 
them  at  home,  and  have  carried  them  always  about  me. 

I  took  them  out  there,  merely  to  see  how  his  story,  and 
that  which  you  have  heard,  would  correspond;  and  that 
I  might  refer  to  them,  if  necessary,  to  refresh  my  memo- 
ry. 

But  let  me  proceed.  I  entered,  abruptly,  upon  the  sub- 
ject of  my  visit.  I  told  him  that  I  would  not  be  his  friend 
at  halves, — that  I  respected  him,  and  desired  to  respect 
him.  It  was  later  than  I  intended; — and  he  took  out  his 
watch,  with  a  serious  air,  and  laid  it  upon  the  table  be- 
fore him.  I  asked  no  questions,  but  began,  and  went 
through,  without  flinching,  the  whole  that  I  had  heard. 
His  countenance  never  changed, — once,  only  excepted, 
when  1  thought  that  he  smiled  inwardly. 

"Do  you  believe  the  stories?"  he  said  calmly. 

What  could  I  say?  I  did  not  believe  them.  I  told 
him  so.  He  smiled.  "Mr.  Omar,"  said  he,  "this  will 
be  a  lesson  to  you.  What  you  have  heard,  is  from  good 
authority; — yet,  you  have  dared  to  believe  it  untrue.  On 
what  evidence,  I  do  not  ask  you.  It  is  enough  for  me 
that  you  believe  me  innocent.  Had  you  believed  me 
guilty,  you  would  have  gone  home  as  you  came.  I  should 
have  disdained  to  reply.  Do  you  fully  acquit  me?" 

I  bowed — I  know  not  why;  for  I  saw  something 
sarcastick,  in  his  manner,  such  as  I  would  use  to  a  petu- 
lent,  inquisitive  boy — to  one  that  I  was  making  a  fool  of. 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  His  face  grew  more  so- 
lemn and  pale.  He  looked  me  full  in  the  eyes; — laid 
both  of  his  hands  upon  the  table,  and  pronounced  these 
words,  deliberately,  in  a  low  voice,  that  1  shall  never 
forget,  never,  to  my  dying  day — "The  stories  are  true," 

Was  he  mad? 1  looked  at  him.  in  amazement.  Was 

it  his  voice?  I  know  not.  It  did  not  sound  like  his; 
nor  had  I  ever  heard  aught  that  resembled  it,  from 


RANDOLPH.  151 

f  'Mr.  Omar,"  said  he — (at  the  sound  of  his  voice  then} 
I  recovered  instantly  from  my  consternation.)  He  took 
no  notice  of  my  surprise;  and  I  began  to  doubt  if  my  ears 
had  not  deceived  me.  "Mr.  Omar — the  stories  are  true." 
.  I  started  from  my  seat.  Nay — I  was  on  the  point  of  strik- 
ing him.  I  raised  my  arm, — but  he  struck  it  down, 
lifeless,  at  my  side.  "Boy,"  said  he,  "sit  down.  Had 
that  blow  alighted  on  me,  you  had  been  a  corpse,  at  this 
moment.  Sit  down,  and  hear  me.  The  stories,  even  as 
you  have  them,  arc  from  my  own  lips.  I  betrayed  my- 
self. The  secret  was  my  own — but  I  chose  to  betray 

it-" 

I  shuddered — my  whole  side  was  numb.  And  I  sat 
before  him,  like  something  helpless,  and  at  his  mercy. 

I  shall  now  endeavour  to  give  you  a  faithful  account  of 
all  that  passed  between  us,  at  this  interview;  and  I  would 
have  you  reflect  on  the  character,  that  he  betrayed  in  his 
reasoning. 

"Yet,  you  must  listen  to  my  account  of  the  same  trans- 
actions," said  he.  «'You  shall.  But  beware  how  you 
lift  your  hand  against  me. A  blow,  t  cannot  en- 
dure. I  have  sworn  never  to  endure  it,  again;  and  I 
never  will.  If  you  are  angry  with  me,  strike  me  to  the 
heart.  There  lies  my  sword.  There  are  my  pistols. — 
1  am  weary  of  life.  I  will  uncover  my  breast  to  you.  I 
will  not  defend  myself.  But,  again,  do  I  say  to  you,  John 
Omar,  as  you  value  your  own  life,  do  not  lift  your  hand, 
to  give  me  a  blow.  It  has  cost  more  than  one  man  dear- 
ly, already.  But,  to  the  point.  I  thank  you  for  putting 
your  question  home,  without  circumlocution  or  apology. 
It  shows  that  you  have  a  good  opinion,  at  least,  of  my 
temper  and  self  command." 

"Nay,"  said  I,  interrupting  him,  "even  more  than  that; 
it  shows  that  1  do  not  believe  what  I  have  heard.  No 
man,  if  he  believed  that  another  was  a  villain,  could  speak 
to  him  on  the  subject,  without  hesitation.  He  would  fal- 
ter  ." 

"You  did  falter,"  rejoined  Molton.  "But,  no  matter 
for  that.  You  have,  on  the  whole,  dared  to  tell  me,  what 
the  world  has  thought  proper  to  say  of  me.  And,  although 


RANDOLPH. 

it  is  very  true,  that,  by  asking  me,  directly,  if  I  be  guilty 
or  not  guilty,  you  manifest  much  confidence  in  me;  and 
much  more  than  you  would  have  done,  by  coming  at  me 
with  a  side  wind;  yet,  after  all,  your  very  question  might 
have  been  an  insult." 

"An  insult!  how  so?  I  do  not  believe  what  I  have 
heard." 

"Not  entirely,  you  should  say,"  he  replied;  "but,  to  a 
certain  degree,  you  must  believe  it,  or  you  would  repel 
the  whole,  at  once,  with  indignation.  Would  it  not  be 
an  insult*  think  you,  to  ask  a  woman  if  she  is  virtuous?" 

"Why — to  be  sure — it but  I  do  not  ask  you  any 

such  question.  1  only  tell  you  what  they  say  of  you, 
abroad." 

"True.  But  do  you  not  watch  my  countenance,  all  the 
while;  and  do  you  not  look  to  hear  me  defend  myself,  in- 
dignantly, with  the  vehement  courage  of  an  injured  and 
insulted  man." 

"To  be  sure — but  then,  I  do  this,  that  I  may  be  able  to 
defend  you,  myself." 

"To  defend  me!  What  wrould  a  modest  woman  say  to 
a  champion,  that  would  throw  down  a  gauntlet  in  the 
same  way,  in  defence  of  her  reputation?  Would  it  not  be 
an  insult?" 

"Not,  if  her  reputation  were  attacked." 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  The  highest  and  most  unap- 
proachable purity,  is  only  dishonoured  by  it:— a  second 
rate  purity  may  be  honoured  by  it.  Were  I,  in  your  es- 
timation, utterly  guiltless,  you  would  mock  at  these  tales; 
and  deride  them,  as  the  clumsy  invention  of  idle  and  wick- 
ed gossips.  But  being,  what  I  am,  not  utterly  guiltless, 
in  your  own  estimation,  but  only  guilty  in  a  less  degree, 
you  have  had  the  courage  to  tell  me  what  people  say,  in 
a  manner  that  convinces  me  of  your  respect.  Not  men- 
tioning it  at  all,  would  have  been  the^roof,  that  you  held  me 

to  be  wholly  guilty,  or  wholly  innocent. But  what  is 

the  matter?     You  look  puzzled." 

"I  am  puzzled;  I  confess  it.  And  yet,  an  illustration 
occurs  to  me  that but  illustration  is  not  argument," 


RANDOLPH.  153 

•  'I  beg  your  pardon :  illustration  is  analogy;  and  what 
is  analogy,  but  argument?  But  no  matter  about  that,  for 
the  present.  Let  us  hear  your  illustration." 

"Well  then — it  was  to  this  effect.  Suppose  that  I  had 
heard  George  Washington  charged  with  habitual  drunk- 
enness; and  suppose  that  I  was  intimate  with  him,  as  I 
am  with  you.  I  should  scorn  to  reply  to  such  a  charge.  I 
should  never  mention  it  to  him,  at  all,  in  all  probability; 
and,  certainly,  never,  as  I  have  mentioned  these  matters 
to  you,  watching  his  countenance  all  the  while.  You  smile. 
You  are  preparing  to  overthrow  me  entirely.  I  see  it  in 
your  eyes; — and,  I  believe,  unless  I  very  much  mistake 
your  character,  that  you  would  not  care  what  became  of 
your  own  hypothesis,  while  you  were  demolishing  my  il- 
lustration. Is  it  not  so?  What  say  you?" 

"Never  mind.     Go  on — finish  your  illustration." 

"Thank  you.  I  feel  it  like  a  reprieve.  1  was  about 
to  say,  then,  that,  if  I  had  heard  Washington  charged 
with  having  been,  on  some  one  occasion,  drunk,  instead  of 
being  habitually  so,  I  should,  were  1  his  friend,  probably 
enter  into  a  defence  of  him,  with  great  warmth;  and,  pro- 
bably, on  some  occasion  or  other,  ask  him  about  the  truth 
of  it.  And  why?  Because  I  might  believe  the  latter 
charge  to  be  possible.  This  confirms  your  doctrine.  I 
believe,  that  you  are  possibly  guilty  in  some  degree.  But 
did  I  believe  you  altogether  guilty,  or  not  at  all  so,  then 
I  should  never  have  mentioned  the  matter  to  you.  In  the 
first  place,  I  should  not  dare  to  mention  it;  and,  in  the 
latter,  I  should  scorn  to. But,  what  are  you  mu- 
sing about?" 

"I  can  hardly  tell  you,"  said  he,  after  a  pause.  "A 
strange  hypothesis,  that  I  cannot  immediately  master,  is 
disturbing  me.  At  some  future  period,  we  will  have  some 
talk  about  it.  It  is  an  alarming  paradox,  and,  if  I  am 
right,  will  explain  certain  operations  of  our  mind,  that 
have  been,  for  a  long  time,  unintelligible  to  our  meta- 
physicians." 

"Pray,  what  is  it?" 

"In  one  word,  then,  it  is but  we  cannot,  well,  dis- 
cuss it,  now.    It  is,  that  the  more  improbable  a  story  is, 
O  2 


154  ^%        BAWDOLPH. 

the  more  probable  it  is.  I  am  very  serious.  I  state  it  as 
a  paradox;  and,  at  present,  omit  all  its  qualifications  and 
exceptions.  People  that  lie,  are  often,  nay,  generally, 
more  plausible  than  others.  You  will  hear  a  man  of  ve- 
racity tell  a  common  story,  so  as  to  look  suspicious; — 
while  an  habitual  liar  will  make  up  a  very  uncommon 
story,  that  shall  appear  probable.  The  former  disdains 
all  trick;  he  has  never  been  doubted:  and  he  never  trou- 
bles himself  to  ask,  if  what  he  relates  be  probable.  But 
the  latter  seeks  to  make  whatever  he  may  tell,  probable 
in  the  minutest  particular.  He  is  full  of  circumstantiality; 
he  gives  place,  time,  and  language.  It  is  a  well  known 
mark  of  suspicion,  in  courts  of  justice,  that  the  story  of 
a  witness  is  very  particular,  consistent,  and  circumstan- 
tial. It  looks  like  a  prepared  tning.  Arid  men  of  experi- 
ence know,  that  a  witness  upon  the  stand,  if  he  be  very 
scrupulous  and  honest,  is  much  more  liable  to  contradict 
himself,  and  to  become  embarrassed,  than  the  perjured 
scoundrel.  The  former  will  hesitate,  and  qualify,  and 
weigh;  where  the  latter  swears  it  out,  roundly,  promptly, 
and  without  any  embarrassment." 

"A  man -that  makes  up  a  lie,  then,  will  make  it  proba- 
ble. To  my  notion,  then,  a  story  is  more  likely  to  be 
true,  from  the  very  want  of  plausibility  upon  the  face  of 
it.  Liars  are  ingenious  and  ready.  If  a  man  should 
say  to  me,  therefore,  that  Washington  was  habitually  in- 
temperate, I  should  be  more  apt  GO  believe  that  he  was 
telling  the  truth,  than  if  he  should  sit  down  and  tell  me 
a  long  and  particular  story,  about  having  seen  him  drunk 
on  some  one  occasion;  and  how  he  was  dressed;  and  what 
he  said  and  did;  and  when  it  was,  and  where;  and  who 
was  there,  &c.  &c.  So  that,  to  despatch  this  affair,  at 
once,  it  would  seem,  that  a  story  may  be  the  more  probable 
for  its  very  improbability.'99 

There,  Sarah,  I  think  that  I  have  given  you  a  fair 
sample  of  Molton's  manner,  when  he  trifles,  with  that 
air  of  earnest  pleasantry,  for  which  he  is  so  remarkable; 
and,  now,  I  will  attempt  to  repeat  the  remainder  of  our 
conversation.  After  a  few  moments,  he  turned  toward 
me,  again;  and  addressed  me,  as  nearly  as  I  can  recollect, 
in  the  very  words  following. 


RANDOLPH. 

"The  first  story  that  you  heard  is  true.  When  I  was 
a  hoy,  between  16  and  17  years  of  age,  I  was  a  kind  of 
under-strapper  in  a  large  store;  and  lived  at  the  house 
of  my  master.  A  very  pretty,  or  rather,  a  very  good- 
looking  girl,  a  relation  of  the  family,  was  on  a  visit  there, 
at  the  same  time.  For  a  week  or  two,  when  we  were 
alone,  she  was  rather  condescending;  und  used  to  talk 
to  me,  very  graciously,  about  novel -redoing.  At  last, 
she  prayed  me  to  borrow  one,  called  ARIEL,  from  a  friend 
of  her's,  promising  to  lend  it  to  me,  when  sh*  had  done 
with  it.  I  borrowed  the  book,  and  was  very  impatient 
to  read  it;  for  I  read  with  exceeding  avidity,  whatever 
came  in  my  way.  She  read  very  slowly,  and  1,  with  un- 
common rapidity." 

"One  evening,  after  tea,  there  came  a  barrel  0f  Med- 
ford  crackers,  to  the  house;  which,  for  some  reason  or 
other,  was  put  into  the  closet  of  this  girl's  room.  \I  held 
the  candle,  I  remember;  and  while  'they  were  stowing 
away  the  barrel,  I  saw  the  novel  lying  on  the  mantle*- 
piece."  , 

"The  next  day,  while  I  was  at  the  store,  a  sudden  De- 
sire took  hold  of  me,  to  eat  one  of  the  *'Medford  cracl 
ers."  I  cast  about,  for  some  time,  to  see  how  I  shoulc 
manage  the  matter;  and  at  last,  determined  to  run  home 
for  a  moment;  go  up  to  my  chamber,  which  opened  into 
the  same  landing  with  her's;  arid,  if  I  found  her  door  open, 
as  it  generally  was,  in  the  day  time,  to  slip  into  her  room, 
and  get  a  supply.  I  am  too  old,  now,  to  laugh  at  such 
things,  or  to  wonder  at  any  thing;  or  else,  I  should  say 
that  I  ne~ver  knew  an  example  of  childish  infatuation  like 
mine.  I  was  not  hungry.  I  had  enough  to  eat,  and  of 
the  best  quality.  Yet,  so  it  was;  I  had  a  longing,  such 
I  suppose,  as  women  have  at  times,  and  green  girls  for 
blue  clay,  chalk  and  charcoal;  and  I  determined  to 
gratify  it.  I  went  home;  and,  as  I  passed  the  parlour,  I 
saw  somebody,  whom  I  took  to  be  the  girl  in  question, 
with  a  baby  in  her  arms.  I  was  certain  that  it  was  she.  I 
saw  her  as  plainly  as  I  now  see  you;  and  I  would  have 
sworn  that  it  was  she.  I  hurried  up  stairs,  stepped  soft- 
ly through  my  room,  and  found  the  door  of  her's,  contra- 


156 

ry  to  what  I  had  observed,  whenever  I  had  occasion  to 
go  to  my  chamber  in  the  day  time,  shut.  I  attempted 
to  turn  the  handle  very  softly — succeeded;  and  was 
opening  it,  gradually,  inch  by  inch,  for  fear  of  being 
heard;  when,  somebody,  a  woman  too,  about  half  dressed, 
sprang  toward  it,  and  shut  it  violently  in  my  face;  but, 
unluckily,  not  witfiout  seeing  me." 

**  And  here,  oy  the  way,  I  have  a  hint  to  give,  which 
may  be  useful*  one  day  or  other,  to  some  unhappy  fellow, 
in  a  like  predicament.  Doors  are  apt  to  creak; — there 
are  two  ways  of  preventing  it — lift,  or  bear  down  upon 
the  lateh;  and  open  or  shut  it,  swiftly.  But,  if  neither 
will  do,  follow  my  example — mew  faintly,  like  a  cat; 
or  make  a  noise  like  a  sleeper,  snoring;  do  this,  and  you 
will  be  safe,  any  where,  provided  you  keep  time  with  the 
creaking  of  the  door.  But  let  me  return  to  the  crackers. 
My  heart,  itself  had  well  nigh  exploded  with  shame.  I 
was  innocent,  but  appearances  were  enough  to  hang  me." 

<*What  could  I  do?  My  trepidation  was  excessive. — 
Net  that  I  feared  any  living  creature,  in  the  way  of  per- 
sonal chastisement;  but  I  was  terrified  to  the  heart,  at 
<he  thought  of  what  the  poor  girl  might  imagine.  I  re- 
turned to  the  store,  in  a  strange  stale  of  consternation 
and  perplexity; — 1  knew  that  I  should  be  questioned 
about  the  matter;  and  I  knew,  too,  that  the  plain  truth 
would  be  vastly  more  improbable,  than  a  lie,  which  I 
could  put  together  in  two  minutes.  It  turned  out  as  I 
expected.  The  good  woman  of  the  house,  after  stuffing 
me  to  the  throat,  with  dainties,  to  detain  me,  till  all  the 
rest  had  left  the  room,  at  dinner,  put  the  affair  home  to 
me,  at  once;  asking  me,  while  her  own  face  coloured  and 
shook,  and  mine  burnt  as  if  a  furnace  were  before  me, 
"what  I  wanted  in  Miss  Harriott^  room?" 

"I  was  afraid  to  tell  the  truth,  as  I  have  already  said;  I 
knew  that  it  would'nt  be  believed:  and  I  was  ashamed  to 
mention  the  crackers.  So  I  toldher  a  story,  of  which  this  (I 
do  not,  of  course,  remember  the  words)  was  the  substance." 

"I  went  therefor  a  book,  Madam.  Miss  Harriott  pro- 
mised to  lend  me  ARIEL,  the  other  day;  and  I  did  not  like 
to  keep  asking  her  for  it,  continually.  I  could  read  it 


HANDOLPH.  1ST 

jthrough,  in  a  few  hours;  and,  last  night,  when  I  went  to 
hold  the  candle,  while  the  crackers  were  put  into  Jier  clo- 
set, (or,  to  put  them  into  the  closet,  while  somebody  else 
held  the  candle)  I  sa\v  the  book  lying  over  the  fire-place. 
To-day,  while  1  was  up  stairs,  having  little  or  nothing 
to  do,  it  occurred  to  me  that  1  could  slip  into  her  room, 
if  I  tbund  it  open;  take  away  the  book;  read  it;  and  re- 
turn it,  before  it  was  missed.  I  saw  her  below  ma'rn,  as 
I  thought,  when  I  went  up  to  my  room;  and,  it  was  for 
that  reason,  that  I  ventured  to  open  the  door,"  &c.  &c. 

**This  story  was  believed,  this  lie,  I  ought  to  say,  when 
the  truth  would  not  have  been.  They  knew  that  I  was 
passionately  fond  of  reading;  but  they  did  not  know  that  I 
was  at  all,  fond  .of  Medford  crackers.  The  account  was 
probable,  from  my  pride,  age,  and  manner;  for  my  pride 
and  manner  were  those  of  a  man.  1  had  no  more  trou- 
bl«  about  the  matter;  but,  I  dare  say,  that  it  is  remem- 
bered; and  I  am  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  tell  the  plain 
truth.  It  is  a  relief  to  me." 

1  believe  him,  Sarah;  it  appeared  to  be  a  relief  to  him. 
"But"—  ho  oouimued,  ••me  iiexiarrair  is  one,  that  I  am 
unwilling  to  talk  about;  and  I  know  not  if  I  would  con- 
descend to  exculpate  myself,  were  it  not  that  an  elder 
brother,  of  the  poor  little  girl  in  question,  has  thought  pro- 
per to  put  her  reputation  at  issue.  He  told  one  person, 
at  least;  and  perhaps  more  than  one,  that  I  was  a  depen- 
dant in  the  family;  under  great  obligations  to  every  mem- 
her  of  it;  that  his  sister  was  a  mere  child;  that  I  took  ad- 
vantage of  her  innocent  nature,  so  far  as  to  go  to  her 
bed-side,  at  night,  and  kiss  her.  He  is  a  liar,  and  a  fool." 

"He  is  a  liar,  for  I  was  never,  in  any  way,  a  dependant 
of  the  family.  They  arp  all  under  greater  obligations  to 
me,  than  I  to  them.  I  laboured  for  them;  and,  in  the 
wreck  of  extensive  commercial  dealing,  the  profits  of  my 
labour  went  to  the  support  of  three  of  their  families  at 
least.  I  came  out  of  the  concern  a  beggar.  So  did  this 
brother,  to  be  sure.  But  his  mother's  family  were  great- 
ly benefited;  made,  in  a  measure  independent,  by  an  ap- 
plication of  the  partnership  funds.  I  do  not  say  that  it 
was  dishonestly  done.  I  know  that  it  was  not.  But — I 


158  RANDOLPH. 

know  also  that  I  was  alone;  and  that  my  family  were  not 
benefitted;  but  that  1  lost,  and,  that  they  lost,  all  that  both 
were  worth,  while  the  family  of  this  very  man,  grew  com- 
fortable by  our  labour.  He  is  a  liar.  1  was  not  in  a  state  of 
dependence  for  a  moment.  I  paid  my  board,  at  the  high- 
est price  too,  continually  and  regularly;  and  was  gener- 
ally in  advance,  to  the  very  family  where  this  transaction 
happened.  He  is  a  liar.  His  sister  was  not  a  child, 
when  the  affair  happened.  She  was  fourteen  years 
old,  (I  believe)  and  large  of  her  age.  She  had  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  fresh,  healthy  girl  of  sixteen.  He  is  a  liar. 
I  did  not  kiss  her. — I  never  kissed  her  in  my  life.  I  did 
not  take  advantage  of  my  situation;  if  I  had  chosen  to, 
nothing  could  have  saved  her.  I  do  not  say  this,  out  of 
disrespect  to  her,  or  un kindness;  but,  because  it  ifc  the 
truth.  No  young,  careless  girl  could  have  withstood  me, 
if  I  had  been  a  scoundrel,  with  the  opportunities  that  I 
had." 

"HE  is  A  FOOL — for  he  knows  me.  He  knows  that  I 
will  not  bear,  very  patiently,  with  such  presumption. 
He  knows  that  I  am  not  TO  De  trifled  witnj  or,  if  he  do 
not  already  know  it,  he  and  his  whole  family  shall  know 
it,  in  a  way  that  they  do  not  apprehend.  HE  is  A  FOOL; 
inasmuch  as  he  has  told  a  secret,  that  would  have  been 
untold,  but  for  him,  and  one  other  man;  as  mistaken  as 
himself;  a  secret  that  concerned  his  own  sister.  Fool! 
mad  man!  who  will  believe  him!  who,  that  knows  me, 
will  believe  that  I  contented  myself  with  kissing  a  wo- 
man, whom  I  had  found  in  bed,  at  midnight;  who  will 
believe  that  the  hostility  of  the  family  grew  out  of  an  in- 
cident so  trivial?  Nobody.  But  for  me,  then,  where 
would  be  the  reputation  of  his  young  and  innocent  sister? 
It  would  be,  at  this  moment,  irretrievably  blasted,  by  the 
tattling  of  her  own  brother,  were  it  not  that  the  man 
whom  he  has  attempted  to  ruin — by  poisoning  his  repu- 
tation, at  the  very  moment  that  he  was  intimate  with 
him — is  willing  to  bear  testimony  to  htr  innocence." 

"And  who  told  the  truth,  at  last?  How  came  the 
brother  to  know  it  at  all?  I  was  not  suspected.  The  fami- 
ly treated  me  most  kindly  and  affectionately,  long  after 


RANDOLPH.  159 

it  had  happened.  I  visited  the  mother;  I  lived  with  her 
for  *veeks;  I  took  up  *ny  abode  with  her  brothers  and  sis- 
ters; and  yet  I  was  undreamt  of.  Aye,  who  told  the 
truth  at  last?  It  was  I.  Yes! — I — and  what  object  had 
I  to  gain?  Nothing  but  this — I  was  determined  to  give 
the  last  and  greatest  proof,  of  my  repentance  and  refor- 
mation." 

"And  what  was  the  consequence?  How  was  it  receiv- 
ed? I'll  tell  you,  Omar.  It  will  teach  you  caution.  It 
will  convince  you  that,  with  men,  it  is  safer  to  be  a  vil- 
lain than  to  appear  so;  that  it  is  easy  and  advantageous  to 
deceive*  but  very  perilous  to  undeceive;  that,  while  a  man 
is  a  scoundrel,  if  he  be  not  a  fool,  he  can  escape  suspi- 
cion; but  that,- the  moment  that  he  proves  himself  honest- 
er  than  his  neighbour,  by  acknowledging  his  most  hid- 
den transgression,  and  turning  witness  against  himself, 
he  is  a  banished  and  ruined  man;  banished  from  all 
hearts,  and  ruined  in  all  opinions." 

"You  are  a  young  man.  I  call  you  so,  because,  what- 
ever may  be  the  number  of  years  that  you  have  lived, 
you  are  altogether  younger  than  I  am.  It  may  be  well 
for  you,  to  understand  how  continually,  yet  how  secretly, 
our  self-love  is  at  work.  A  thousand  contradictory  phe- 
nomena may  be  traced  to  that  little  passion.  We  can- 
not endure  to  think  humbly  of  our  own  judgment.  It  is 
painful  to  acknowledge  that  we  have  been  deceived — and, 
therefore,  we  persist  against  all  evidence,  frequently,  in 
maintaining  any  opinion  that  we  have  once  been  heard 
to  express.  How  reluctantly  do  we  listen  to,  and  how 
unwilling  we  are  to  believe  anything  against  a  favourite. 
It  is  amusing  to  see  how  ingenious  we  are  in  escaping 
conviction — how  industrious  and  sensible,  in  accounting 
for  all  that  he  may  have  done,  said,  or  thought  amiss. — 
Now  this  would  be  very  amiable,  and  ought  to  make  one 
in  love  with  human  nature,  a  man  would  be  apt  to  think. 
But  hearken  a  moment.  The  same  benevolent  creature, 
who  will  not  hear  you  open  your  mouth  against  a  friend, 
will  not  hear  you  open  it  in/arow  of  an  enemy.  And 
why?  Is  it  that  he  is  too  generous,  too  like  a  philan- 
thropist in  the  former  case?  Or  that  he  is  too  wicked  iu 


160  RANDOLPH. 

the  latter?  No  such  thing.  It  is  an  impeachment  of  his 
own  judgment,  against  which  he  braces  himself.  H«j  is 
only  withstanding  the  overthrow  of  his  own  opinion,  and 
nothing  more.  It  is  humbling  to  be  convinced,  that  he 
has  been  a  fool  or  a  bad  man: — a  fool,  if  he  have  acted 
without  evidence,  in  his  love  or  his  hatred;  and  a  bad 
man,  if  he  have  acted  against  it.  Such  is  the  character 
of  man.  I  know  it.  I  knew  it  from  the  first:  and,  there- 
fore, I  strive  not,  to  convince  men  that  I  was  not  so  bad 
as  they  believed;  because,  if  I  succeeded,  which  would  be 
a  miracle,  for  it  would  involve  their  own  self  condemna- 
tion— what  should  I  gain  by  it?  Nothing — nothing — 
but  the  hasty  acquittal  of  men,  whose  condemnation  were 
hardly  worse,  than  their  praise." 

"In  a  few  moments,  you  will  be  master  of  the  whole 
story.  You  will  vsonder  then,  at  my  infatuation.  You 
,  will  ask  if  I  repent  of  it.  I  shall  answer  you — no!  I  do 
not.  What  I  told  then,  I  would  tell  now.  I  did  it  to  re- 
cover my  own  respect,  not  that  of  other  men;  to  make 
peace  with  a  troubled  spirit — a  proud  and  unforgiving 
nature; — but  it  was  no  other  nature,  and  no  other  spirit, 
than  my  own.  I  had  no  one  to  appease,  but  myself; — for, 
to  no  one,  upon  the  earth,  was  my  transgression  known." 

"I  told  the  truth  to  my  friend — to  my  dearest  friend. 
What  did  he?  Did  he  ask  leave  to  communicate  it?  No! 
But  he  did  communicate  it.  And  why?  Could  it  make 
them  wiser,  or  better?  Could  it  do  any  good?  Yes!  he 
told  them — and  without  letting  me  know  of  it;  so  that  I 
was  subjected  to  the  chance  of  continual  insult  from  them. 
And  yet,  this  very  brother,  of  whom  I  have  just  spoken* 
he,  who,  in  his  gossipping,  childish  confidence  has  put 
the  character  of  his  own  sister  in  jeopardy,  met  me,  and 
journeyed  with  me,  day  after  day,  with  the  most  cordial 
expression  of  good  will,  after  he  knew  the  whole  story; 
and  was  scoundrel  enough,  and  coward  enough,  to  assail 
my  reputation,  secretly,  at  the  same  time,  by  falsehood 
and  misrepresentation.  Nay,  I  might  have  been  led  to 
visit  the  family,  without  any  suspicion  of  the  change,  by 
the  concealment  of  the  first  person,  that  he  had  betrayed 
me;  and  by  the  abject  duplicity  of  the  latter;  and  then,  in  al 


RANDOLPH.  161 

probability,  tbere  would  have  been  blood  shed; — for,  by 
the  living  God!  I  would  have  struck  to  the  earth,  any  of 
the  sons,  or  brothers,  who  should  have  dared  to  treat'ine, 
to  my  face,  as  they  have  treated  me  at  a  distance.'* 

"And  now,  to  my  defence.  The  poor  girl,  I  shall 
spare;  but,  I  shall  spare  her  for  her  own  sake,  not  for 
theirs.  I  never  think  of  her,  but  with  respect  and  emo- 
tion. I  shall  prove  that,  bad  as  I  am — I  cannot  injure 
her,  as  her  brothers  have.  My  wickedness  will  not  do, 
what  their  folly  would,  if  it  were  not  neutralised  by  me." 

"  i  am  charged  with  attempting  the  deliberate  seduc- 
tion of  a  child.  That  is  the  substance  of  the  charge." 

"Omar,  it  might  be  a  full  reply  to  this  charge,  were  I 
to  appeal  to  m>  life.  It  has  been  a  long  one,  and  full  of 
self-denial,  in  relation  to  women.  I  have  led  many  into 
peril;  but  I  never  availed  myself  of  it.  Yet,  of  this,  I 
have  no  witness;  and  I  disdain  to  use  asseveration." 

"When  I  first  saw  this  child,  she  was  a  pretty  little 
creature,  about  eleven  years  old,  I  believe.  She  became 
very  fond  of  me;  and  I  loved  her,  as  I  would  have  loved 
my  own  sister.  She  had  an  innocent  and  caressing  way 
with  her;  wras  remarkably  affectionate;  and,  to  my 
thought,  felt,  even  at  that  age,  with  more  of  the  feeling 
of  a  woman,  than  of  ti  child." 

"Some  years  afterward,  I  met  her  again.  She  had 
grown  tall  and  ugly;  was  careless  in  her  appearance, 
awkward,  hoyden-like,  and  slovenly.  I  remonstrated 
with  her;  I  taught  her  to  w  rite  and  draw.  1  had  con- 
tinual opportunity  to  profit  of  her  unsuspicious,  grateful 
temper;  but  I  forbore.  I  never  toyed  with  her.  I  never 
trifled  with  her;  I  never  romped  with  her;  I  never  kissed 
her;  and  I  never  attempted  any  liberties  with  her.  I  w  ill 
not  say,  that,  while  directing  her,  in  her  drawing  or  writ- 
ing lesson,  I  may  not  have  laid  my  hand  over  her  lap,  or 
half  encircled  her  waist,  with  my  arm,  as  she  leaned  over 
me.  She  betrayed  her  feeling  toward  me,  in  several 
ways;  once,  when  we  firsi  met,  after  a  separation  of  two 
or  three  years,  by  catching  my  hand  and  kissing  it,  as 
we  both  stooped,  at  the  same  moment,  to  pick  up  some- 
thing that  one  of  us  had  dropped;  and,  many  times,  by 


162  RANDOLPH. 

coming  into  my  chamber,  which  was  opposite  to  her  own, 
anu  challenging  me,  by  her  countenance  and  hilarity,  to 
a  game  of  romps:  not  by  words — that  she  never  did;  for 
she  was  afraid  of  me,  and  more  afraid  of  my  opinion." 

"For  a  long  time,  we  lived  together  in  the  same  house. 
Her  chamber  and  mine  were  so  situated,  that  I  continual- 
ly passed  her  door,  when  I  went  to  bed,  and  when  I  rose. 
She  knew  this,  of  course;  yet,  so  neglectful  was  she  of 
propriety;  or  so  indifferent  to  it,  that  I  have  seen  her, 
again  and  again,  dressing  and  undressing,  night  and 
morning,  often,  when  the  door  was  ajar;  and,  once  or 
twice,  through  the  key-hole.  You  look  indignant;  look 
so — I  do  not  blame  you.  I  am  no  listener  at  key -holes; 
"but  I  hold  it  to  be  something  brutish  and  insensible,  to 
pass  by  any  opportunity  of  seeing  a  beautiful  woman, 
(nature's  masterpiece,)  naked,  without  profiting  by  it. 

"More  than  once,  have  I  seen  that  child  lying,  in  the 
moonlight,  almost  naked;  or,  of  a  warm  summer  morn- 
ing, in  her  quiet,  untroubled  innocence  and  security;  and 
I  have  stood  and  contemplated  her,  with  a  feeling  more 
nearly  allied  to  religion*  than  to  impurity." 

"One  night,  she  was  terrified  in  her  sleep;  and  left  her 
bed,  precipitately;  ran  into  a  neighbouring  chamber, 
and  crept  into  bed,  with  an  old  negro  woman,  to  whom 
she  declared  that  a  black  man  had  been  attempting  to 
strangle  her.  I  heard  the  story  at  the  time,  and  laughed 
at  it,  as  the  dreaming  of  a  child.  But,  at  last,  I  learned 
to  avail  myself  of  it,  in  my  own  defence.  It  was  nearly 
^  year  after  her  fright;  and  happened  somewhat  after 
this  fashion.  I  had  seen  her  naked,  no  matter  how  nor 
where;  and  I  had  good  reason  to  believe  that  she  knew 
it,  at  the  time.  Nay,  I  still  believe  so.  Some  other  sus- 
picion entered  my  heart,  about  the  same  time;  of  what  na- 
ture, I  need  not  declare,  since  1  am  perfectly  satisfied 
that  her  thought,  like  my  own,  was  innocent.  As  I  lay 
meditating  on  the  whole  of  my  acquaintance  with  her,  a 
strange  curiosity  arose  in  my  heart,  to  ascertain  the  truth 
of  my  conjecture.  My  plan  was  immediately  formed,  and 
deliberately  executed;  but,  with  no  disposition  to  injure 
the  poor  girlj  far  less,  with  any  thought  of  her  dishonour- 


RANDOLPH.  163 


I  meant  to  give  her,  as  I  have  given  more  than  one  wo- 
man, a  lesson,  that  she  would  never  forget,  i  did  not  mean 
to  sacrifice  her;  but  I  meant  to  place  her  in  such  a  situa- 
tion, that  she  would  have  been  in  my  power: — what  I  mean 
by,  being  in  my  power,  is  only,  that  she  should  not  dare, 
on  her  own  account,  to  call  out,  or  resist  me." 

"I  went  to  her  bed.  I  lay  down  by  her  side,  and  put 
my  arm,  very  gently,  over  her,  so  that  it  rested  upon  a 
little  child,  that  slept  with  her  at  the  time.  And  this  re* 
minds  me  of  another  of  her  little  imprudencies.  While 
she  was  in  bed,  the  uncle  of  the  child  used  to  go  up,  and 
take  it  out  of  her  arms,  and  whip  it;  and  this  uncle  was 
a  young  man,  and  no  relation  of  her's,  either  by  blood 
or  marriage." 

"She  awoke,  and  asked  "wfio's  this?"  I  did  not  reply, 
because  I  thought  that  she  might  mistake  me  for  her  usual 
companion,  a  woman  who  grew  somewhat  accustomed 
to  familiarity,  before  she  married  the  scoundrel,  who  has 
driven  me  to  this  defence." 

"She  was  terrified,  and  repeated  the  question.  I  had 
no  other  object  to  answer.  I  had  ascertained  that  she 
neither  wished  for  me,  nor  expected  me;  and  I  assure  jou 
that,  till  I  had  tried  the  experiment,  I  did  believe  both. 
Her  friends  ought  to  thank  me  for  having  ascertained 
the  truth,  and  vindicated  her  purity  from  all  suspicion. 
I  arose,  immediately,  and  returned  to  my  room.  But 
hardly  had  I  thrown  myself  into  my  own  bed,  'when  I 
heard  her  cries.  They  alarmed  me.  For  the  first  time, 
I  began  to  tremble  for  the  consequences  of  my  own  in- 
temperate and  wicked  curiosity.  I  opened  my  door,  and 
she  threw  herself  into  my  arms,  gasping  for  breath,  and 
shaking  from  head  to  foot.  I  asked  her  what  was  the 
matter.  "O,  there's  a  man  in  my  room!  there's  a  man 
in  my  room!"  she  kept  continually  repeating.  I  pretend- 
ed to  search  the  room,  while  she  ran  down  stairs,  and 
jumped  into  bed  with  a  man  and  his  wife;  and  there  lay, 
poor  creature,  quaking  all  night  long.  The  search  for 
the  man  was  in  vain,  of  course." 

"It  is  wonderful  how  accident  will  oftentimes  befriend 
the  villain.  My  door  I  had  purposely  left  open,  two  or 
three  nights  before,  under  pretence  of  carrying  off 


164  RANDOLPH. 

the  smoke  and  smell  of  the  charcoal,  which  arose  from 
the  wood  that  I  was  in  the  habit  of  burying  every 
night,  in  the  ashes,  that  I  might  have  a  good  bed 
of  coals  in  the  morning;  but,  in  reality,  to  facilitate  my 
escape,  if  there  should  be  any  outcry.  On  this  very  night, 
it  so  happened  that  one  of  the  servants,  in  passing  my 
room,  saw  the  light  of  her  candle  flash  upon  the  further 
wall  of  my  chamber,  opposite  to  the  door;  and  mention- 
ed it.  To  this,  my  practice,  of  late,  to  leave  the  door  open, 
was  a  complete  reply." 

"I  had  taken  care  to  shut  the  door  of  the  girl's  room, 
when  I  entered,  lest  some  person  might  pass,  while  it 
was'open,  and  suspect  something.  The  consequence  was, 
that  I  had  to  open  and  shut  it,  on  returning;  two  things 
that  I  foresaw  might  give  me  trouble,  if  any  alarm  should 
happen  before.  But  mark  my  good  fortune.  Nobody 
could  open  the  door  without  making  some  noise;  althotigb 
he  should  open  it,  as  I  did,  softly  for  a  moment, 
and  then,  very  swiftly.  A  lady  \*ho  slept  below,  main- 
tained, that  the  whole  was  another  dream  of  the  poor 
girl's;  and  declared  that  she  had  been  wide  awake  all 
the  while;  that  she  heard  her  cry  out,  wAo's  this;  and  all 
the  subsequent  confusion;  but  that  there  was  no  door 
opened  or  shut.  "Of  that  she  was  positive!"  The  poor 
girl,  on  the  contrary,  maintained  that  it  was  opened  and 
shut,  with  some  violence.  She  was  mistaken — both  were 
mistaken — but,  in  the  mean  time,  I  escaped.  Their  con- 
tradiction neutralised  the  testimony  of  each.  I  was  par- 
ticular in  shutting  it,  though  she  was  at  my  heels,  lest 
she  might  see  me  enter  my  own  room,  which  was  exact- 
ly opposite  to  her's,  but  I  shut  it  very  softly." 

"There  was  another  fact.  The  poor  girl  said,  that  she 
felt  the  beard  of  a  man,  when  she  put  up  her  hand,  and 
touched  his  face;  and  that  it  was  very  strong  and  harsh. 
I  remembered  that  she  had  touched  my  face,  and  took 
care  to  shave,  very  closely,  the  next  morning,  before  I 
appeared.  My  smooth  chin  I  dare  say,  was  observed.  Then, 
if  you  add  to  this,  that  she  had  been  just  as  badly  fright- 
ened before,  by  nothing  at  all,  you  will  not  wonder  that* 
after  all,  considering  the  infirmity  of  human  testimony., 


RANDOLPH.  165 

I  was  not  even  suspected,  except,  perhaps,  by  the 
girl  herself;  who,  I  believe,  regarded  it,  if  she  did  sus- 
pect me,  as  a/roJicfc/" 

"The  affair,  as  I  tell  you,  passed  over,  without  any 
attention;  and  no  living  creature  could  ever  have  known 
the  truth,  but  for  me.  At  length,  I  began  to  feel  some 
distress  about  the  matter.  I  was  afraid  that  the  poor  girl 
might  be  troubled  all  her  life,  to  determine  whether  the 
whole  was  an  apparition  or  a  reality.  I  was  unwilling 
to  let  her  suffer  in  that  way;  and  equally  unwilling  to 
tell  the  truth.  And  why?  Because  the  plain  truth  would 
be  less  probable,  I  knew,  than  a  lie,  such  as  I  could 
readily  invent.  I  chose  the  latter,  and  told  it  to  her  own 
brother-in-law,  my  most  intimate  friend,  a  good  and 
wise  man.  He  knew  me,  and  believed  me;  and  pledged 
his  o  vvn  faith  for  my  veracity.  The  family  continued  to 
treat  me  as  usual.  I  visited  them  all,  and  was  beloved 
and  respected  by  all.  This  pained  me.  My  blood  was 
troubled.  I  felt  that  I  did  riot  deserve  it;  and  I  could  hard- 
ly refrain  from  telling  the  truth,  many  a  time,  when  the 
thought  came  over  me.  Was  that  man  to  blame?  No! 
He  was  deceived;  and  deceived  by  a  man  who  never  at- 
tempted to  deceive,  in  vain;  by  a  man  who  could,  and  can 
deceive  any  human  being;  by  one,  to  whom  many  years 
are  but  as  a  single  day,  if  his  purpose  be  deception — by 
myself.—Tht  story  that  I  told,  was  this: — I  acknowledg- 
ed that  it  was  I,  myself,  who  visited  her  in  bed — but  I 
told  him,  at  the  same  time,  that  it  happened  in  my  sleep." 

"You  have  not  forgotten,"  said  I,  "that,  when  I  was 
in  love  with  Mary-Ann,  (one  of  my  early  flames,)  that 
Joe  (the  blockhead  who  is  the  author  of  all  this  mischief) 
endeavoured,  continually,  to  discourage  my  affection  for 
her,  chiefly  by  ridiculing  my  confidence  in  her;  nor  have 
you  forgotten,  that  I  tore  her  from  my  heart,  forever,  in 
consequence  of  her  having  permitted  him  to  kiss  her.  I 
never  forgave  him  for  it,  of  course,  although  the  attempt 
was  made  with  my  own  approbation.'* 

"You  know,  too,"  I  continued,  "that  his  present  wife 
slept  in  the  same  bed,  frequently,  with  the  girl,  of  whom 


166  BANDOLPH. 

we  have  been  speaking;  that,  on  the  very  night  when  this 
affair  took  place,  Joe  was  married  to  her." 

"Now,  these  things  were  all  true,  Mr.  Omar,  and  he 
knew. them  to  be  so: — but  listen  to  the  remainder  of  my 
story." 

"This  same  Joe,  by  the  way,  I  may  as  well  give  you 
some  notion  of.  He  is  the  most  unprincipled  and  con- 
temptible profligate,  that  I  ever  saw;  and,  either  the 
greatest  liar,  or  the  most  successful  villain,  among 
women,  upon  earth.  I  know  not  how  he  used  to  succeed 
as  he  did;  but  that  he  did  succeed,  to  a  certain  degree, 
sometimes,  I  know,  of  my  own  knowledge.  The  sum 
of  his  fascination;  and  his  manner  of  fondling  and  whin- 
ing himself  into  the  hearts  of  women,  I  am  perfectly  fa- 
miliar with.  He  danced  prettily;  wore  pomatum  in  his 
hair;  affected  to  be  quite  miserable,  and  sentimental,  and 
very  affectionate;  quoted  poetry;  and  particularly  a  versi- 
fication of  Sterne's  Maria,  and  some  lines  from  Camoens, 
in  that  devilish  lackadaisical  manner,  which  to  some  wo- 
men is  perfectly  irresistible; — a  part  of  the  last,  I  can 
remember." 

"For  I  was  made  in  joy's  despite, 
"And  meant  for  misery's  slave; 
"And  all  my  hours  of  brief  delight, 
"Fled,  like  the  speedy  winds  of  night, 
"Which  soon  shall  wheel  their  sullen  flight, 

"Across  my  grave!*5 

"You  have  no  idea  of  the  effect  produced  upon  the  women 
of  his  intimate  acquaintance,  by  the  occasional  repetition 
of  these  lines.  Those  who  could  not  understand  the  po- 
etry, understood  the  tone — and  all  were  deeply  affected. 
They  wept  with  him,  pitied  him,  either  sobbed  upon  his 
bosom,  or  let  him  sob  upon  theirs;  nay,  some  of  them  went 
into  '-a  melancholy;'?  one  grew  very  thin,  to  my  know- 
ledge, and  another  very  fatj  the  latter  of  whom,  he  secret- 
ly married;  and  that  too,  after  swearing  to  me,  that  he 
•would  not  think  of  such  a  thing,  without  consulting  me. 
It  was  that  man,  who  first  reconciled  me  to  the  company 


RANDOLPH.  167 

of  abandoned  women.  Thus  much  for  his  character, 
Mr.  Omar;  and  now,  for  the  tale  that  I  told,  in  my 
own  defence,  interweaving  much  truth,  with  much  false- 
hood, merely  that  the  poor  girl  might  not  be  under  a  de- 
lusion all  her  life,  in  the  matter;  and  that  I  might  not  be 
utterly  reprobate  in  their  opinion." 

"I  lay  that  night,"  said  1,  (the  night  of  his  marriage,) 
"ruminating  on  my  past  life;  recalling  my  early  love, 
which  he  had  turned  to  bitterness;  I  remembered  the 
pang  that  it  gave  my  heart,  when  he  told  me  that  he  had 
succeeded;  and,  while  I  remembered  it,  I  fell  asleep;  for 
so  vividly  and  strangely  interwoven  were  the  imaginary 
and  the  real,  throughout  the  whole  of  the  adventure,  that 
they  cannot,  even  now,  be  separated  in  my  recollection.  He 
came  to  me,  I  thought,  and  I  reproached  him.  for  having 
drugged  my  wine-cup  with  poison.  He  defended  him- 
self on  the  ground,  that  he  had  done  it  with  my  permis- 
sion. We  wrangled  for  some  time,  until  he,  himself,  as 
I  thought,  proposed  that  1  should  make  the  same  attempt 
upon  the  woman  of  his  heart,  who  lay  in  the  next  room. 
I  arose,  and  went  to  her  bed,  and  lay  down  by  her  side, 
as  I  thought;  nor  did  I  awake,  till  I  heard  a  loud  outcry; 
which,  when  I  first  awoke,  and  found  myself  in  bed 
with  another  person,  in  a  strange  place,  was  more  like 
a  dream  to  me,  than  any  thing  that  had  passed.  At  length, 
however,  I  remembered  enough  to  assist  me  in  recover- 
ing my  own  room.  &c.  &c.  &c." 

"That,  Mr.  Omar,  is  the  substance  of  my  story.  It 
was  beliered,  as  I  have  already  told  you,  and  by  one, 
who  knew  me,  most  intimately?  and  why?  because  itvvas 
probable.  He  knew  that  I  had  never  taken  any  liberties 
with  the  poor  girl;  that  I  had  never  corrupted,  nor  sought 
to  corrupt  her;  that  I  was  not  a  sensualist  nor  a  protti- 
ga  e;  that  I  had  lost  my  early  love/in  the  way  that  I 
mentioned;  that  Joe  was  married  in  the  night,  when  the 
affair  took  place;  and  that  his  wife  did  sleep*  frequently, 
in  the  same  bed  with  the  girl.  Therefore,  as  I  have 
told  you,  he  believed  me.  But,  had  I  told  the  truth,  he 
would  not  have  believed  me.  It  was  too  improbable. 
Do  you  doubt  this?  I  appeal  to  fact.  I  did  tell  him 


X68  RANDOLPH. 

the  truth,  the  simple,  unadulterated  truth,  afterward, 
freely,  and  of  my  own  accord;  yet,  he  did  not  believe  me." 

"Yes — the  account  that  I  gave,  was  believed.  But, 
what  of  that?  my  conscience  grew  uneasy.  I  had  told 
a  lie.  That  was  nothing;  I  cared  little  for  that,  then. 
I  regarded  it  as  a  legitimate  and  lawful  exercise  of  my 
imagination,  like  writing  a  novel  or  a  poem.  But,  the 
thing  that  pained  me,  was,  a  doubt  of  my  own  motive. 
I  had  deceived  one,  that  loved  and  respected  me.  It  lay 
heavily  at  my  heart,  until  I  had  added  two  or  three 
more  deceptions  to  it;  when,  all  at  once,  they  became 
insupportable.  They  would  have  crushed  me;  but  I 
arose,  with  a  convulsive  effort,  and  threw  them  off,  for- 
ever. I  told  the  truth.  I  turned  self-accuser,  before  a 
mortal  tribunal.  I  disdained  to  parley  with  dishonour. 
I  denounced  Edward  Molton,  with  my  own  mouth. 
Who  thanked  me  for  it?  Who  thought  the  better  of  me 

for  it?     Nobody — nobody! John  Omar,  look  at  me — 

if  I  would,  I  might  be  ten  times  the  villain  that  I  am, 
or  ever  have  been,  and  pass  through  life,  unsuspected. 
You  look  upon  me  with  amazement.  You  wonder  at  my 
infatuation.  You  would  ask  what  I  can  hope  to  gain,  by 
laying  bare  my  whole  heart,  before  the  uncharitable  and 
distrustful;  before  them,  whose  very  self-love  will  pre- 
vent them  from  respecting  me,  when  they  find  how  they 
have  been  deceived.  My  answer  is  a  very  simple  one. 
I  have  done  my  duty;  and  whatever  I  hold  to  be  my  du- 
ty, that  will  1  do,  whatever  happen.  I  have  learnt  to 
disregard  all  other  considerations,  of  late.") 

"Can  it  be  your  duty,"  said  I,  after  a  pause,  "to  pub- 
lish the  shame  of  a  family,  with  whom  you  have  been  so 
intimate? — to  put  in  jeopardy,  the  peace  of  a  woman, 
who,  whatever  might  have  been  the  character  of  her  hus- 
band, is  now  tranquil,  and  respectable,  and  unsuspect- 
ed?" 

"Yes— It  is  my  £uty.  Her  husband  has  driven  me 
to  it.  He  has  presumed  too  much  upon  my  patience;  and, 
not  only  he,  but  his  whole  family.  He,  in  particular, 
has,  almost  while  i  held  his  hand  in  mine,  sought  to  damn 
my  reputation,  secretly.  Let  him  take  the  consequences. 


RANDOLPH.  169 


By  showing  that  he  is  a  profligate,  and  a  liar,  I  can  best 
defend  myself  from  his  aspersions.  I  feel  no  hostili- 
ty to  many  of  the  females;  but — wo  to  the  men,  if  they 
provoke  me.  My  character  shall  not  go  down  to  my 
children  profaned — wo  to  them  that  compel  me  to  stand 
at  bay.  I  will  execute  justice  upon  them." 

I  was  alarmed  at  his  countenance;  it  was  full  of  un- 
sparing denunciation. 

"Justice!"  said  I — "it  is  vengeance." 

"Be  it  vengeance,  then.  Call  it  what  you  please.  My 
own  heart  tells  me  that  I  am  doing  rightly;  that  I  have 
forborne  too  long; — so  long,  that,  unless  I  awake  and 
prostrate  my  assailants,  I  may  be  bound  down,  and  im- 
prisoned, forever,  like  Gullivar,  with  cobweb;  which, 
had  I  not  slept  too  soundly,  might  have  been  broken 
asunder,  by  a  breath. — I ." 

He  stopped  suddenly. — I  looked  up.  His  eyes  were 
ri vetted  upon  the  clock.  It  wanted  five  minutes  of 
twelve.  Not  another  word  was  spoken,  till  it  struck 
twelve.  Never  did  I  endure  such  an  awful  silence.  His 
eyes  were  shining  and  motionless;  and  his  lips  open,  as 
if  he  were  some  criminal,  awaiting  his  doom,  and  feeling 
its  approach,  in  every  beat  of  his  pulse— if  his  pulse  did 
beat — for  mine  stopped; — and  the  clock,  too — that  ap- 
peared to  stand  still,  for  a  time. 

He  then  turned  slowly  toward  me,  and  demanded  if  I 
would  take  a  bed  with  him.  "Your  room  is  just  as  you  left 
it; — you  are  our  onty  guest, — our  only  material  guest,  I 
should  say; — dare  you  sit  with  me  for  one  hour  longer — 
no  more?" 

"Dare  I — — ?     I  do 'not  understand." 

He  did  not  appear  tojheed  my  reply; — and  I  repeated 
it. 

"Yes,  sir — 'dare  you?  Dare  you jfc-  up,  face  to  face, 

with  a -with  a  mortal  man,  wlfti  his  countenance, 

looks  like  mine — at  this  moment; — moves  like  mine 

~-is  bleached  and  blasted — stained  like  mine Sir 

my  friend — Omar — do  not  leave  me  alone,  to 

night,  Do  not  If  yqu  are  a  man,  you  will 


170  RANDOLPH. 

I  was  terrified  with  the  horrour  that  his  face  expressed. 
I  knew  not  what  to  say.  I  could  not  comprehend  his 
purpose.  But  I  said,  as  coolly,  as  I  could.  "No,  Mol- 
ton — I  will  not  leave  you 1 " 

He  sprang  from  his  chair; — he  seized  my  hands; — he 
almost  embraced  me; — nay,  I  could  swear  that  there 
were  tears  in  his  eyes.  But  he  shook  in  every  joint. 

"Very  well — I  have  your  promise 1 ." 

The  most  astonishing  fixedness  followed,  as  he  said 
this; — his  lips  moved — but  his  voice  died  away,  in  a  hol- 
low, inarticulate  whisper; — and  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
the  terrace  that  passed  the  window, — with  an  intentness 
that  made  my  blood  run  cold. 

Why  was  /affected  in  this  manner?  /saw  nothing — 
heard  nothing;  but  the  atmosphere  grew  chilly,  all  at 
once,  about  me, — and  my  chair  rattled  against  the  table. 

He  breathed  aloud.  The  blood  rushed  over  his  face 
again: — he  wiped  off  the  clammy  sweat,  that  adhered  to 
his  brow;  arose,  and  walked  to  the  terrace, — opened  the 
door,  and  was  gone  for  a  few  moments.  When  he  came 
back,  he  was  entirely  composed;  a  faint  smile,  but  a  bitter 
one,  was  upon  his  lips,  and  his  blue  eyes  were  unnatu- 
rally glazed. 

"Let  us  continue  our  discussion,"  said  he.  "We  shall 
not  be  interrupt  ^d  again,  to  night."  He  looked  at  the  watch 
---"No,  the  hour  has  passed — that  was  the  third  time." 

"Interrupted!"  said  I,  inaudibly — "how?  Interrupted!" 

"Hush— hush!  This  is  no  proper  place,  for  such  ques- 
tions. You  are  young.  Beware,  lest  you  bring  it  back; — 
would  you  have  your  lips  dry — your  throat  scorched — your 
heart  turned  to  cinders— your ." 

I  obeyed — less,  1  am  sure,  with  any  apprehension  of 
spiritual  things, — than  out  of  respect  to  the  tremendous 
agitation  that  I  saw  in  him.  Cousin, — if  ever  there  was 
a  man  on  this  earth,  supremely  wretched,  that  man  is 
Edward  Molton.  No  matter  whence  it  arises — I  care 
not — 1  ask  not — it  is  our  duty  to  pity  him,  and  pray  for 
him. 

He  resumed,  as  follows — with  a  tone  and  manner, 
of  such  perfect  unconcern,  that  one  would  have  thought  that 


RANDOLPH.  J7j 

nothing  had  happened,  or  that  he  had  no  interest,  whatev- 
er, in  the  matter. 

"The  third  charge,  is,  if  possible,  more  serious.     Ye 
it  is  true — I  do  not  deny  it.     I  did  attempt  to  win  a  wo- 
man away  from  her  solemn  engagement  to   another, — 
and  I  failed.     Why?     Perhaps  I  could  give  a  better  rea- 
son than  any  that  you  have  heard; — but  one  that  1  have 
ever  loved,  i  cannot  speak  of  irreverently.     Her  own 
heart  must  judge  her.     But  the  facts  are  these.     I  saw 
her  by  accident,  when  she  was  a  school  girl.     I  thought 
little  of  her,  at  first,  until  a  circumstance  made  me  believe 
that  she  had  a  better  mind,  than  I  had  ever  suspected.-*- 
I  saw  her  in  tears, — shaken  with  ungovernable  emotion 
and  shame.     I  soothed  her — and  her  manner,  afterward, 
was  that  of  deep  interest,  not  of  tenderness^  so  much  as  of 
awe.     She  was  afraid  of  me.     Sir — I  am   not  a  man  to 
be  deceived  in  such  things.     I  have  had  too  much  expe- 
rience.    I  have  done  with  falsehood, — for  I  am  not  long 
for  the  only  place  where  falsehood  is  permitted — this  vile 
earth.     The  devils  are  true  to  each  other.     You  may  be- 
lieve me,  then; — and  I  declare  to  you,   solemnly,  that 
this  girl  loved  me; — loved  me,  as  passionately  and  as  tru- 
ly, as  any  child  of  her  age  (for  she  was  onlv  15  or  16) 
ever  lov^d  a  man  of  mine.     I  knew  this, — felt  this, — 
and  there  was  two  other  persons,   at  least,   who  saw 
enough,  in  her  manner,  even  in  their  presence,  to  justify 
them  in  saying,  as  I  do,  that  she  laved  me.     Yet  I  took 
no  advantage  of  this.  We  were  often  alone,  and  once,  in 
particular,  when  we  had  little  hope  of  ever  meeting  again. 
Yet  I  forbore  to  signify  any  other  than  the  solicitude  of 
a  brother,  for  the  true  welfare  of  a  young,  and  beautiful, 
and  innocent  sister.     She  expected  more — but  she   was 
impressed,  I  am  sure,  with  more  reverence  for  me.  Why 
did  I  forbear?     I  loved  her — indeed  I  did — not  so  much 
for  what  she  was,  as  for  what  I  believed  that  she  would 
be;  and  1  cautioned  her,  with  all  the  feeling  of  a  lover, 
but  with  the  manner  of  a  friend,  against  many  things  of 
vital  importance  to  her, — her  sudden  and  enthusiastick 
prepossessions — and  prejudices; — the  consequence  of  flat- 
tery, for  she  was  much  sought  after,  and,  I  have  no  doubt, 


172  9       RANDOLPH. 

truly  beloved,  by  several  young  men  of  good  talent,  and 
respectable  family,  at  the  time.     But  why  did  I  forbear? 
From  principle.     I  believed  that  she  loved   me.     Grant 
that  I  was  deceived;  grant  that  my  vanity,   which  was 
inordinate  in  some  matters,  though   I  believe  not  in 
these,  had  deceived  me.     Yet  I  loved  her; — in   that,  I 
could  not  be  deceived, — but  I  forehore  to  communicate, 
by  the  slightest  touch,  or  tone,  or  look,   one  thought  of 
what  I  felt.     Was  there  no  forbearance  in  that?     I  treat- 
ed her  as   something  hallowed, — I   used   no   caressing 
manner: — no  squeezing  of  hands; — no  embracing; — no 
touching  of  lips  or  forehead.     No! — never  did  I  attempt 
either.      Why?      She  was  a  child.     I    was  afraid   of 
familiarising  her  to  such   things;  afraid    of   corrupt- 
ing even  the   atmosphere  of   her    thought — afraid    of 
breathing  upon   her  innocence; — afraid    of    "dashing 
the   tremulous    dew    from    the    flower" — of  brushing 
the  **soft  blue  from  the  grape."     1  was  poor.     I  saw 
no   likelihood    of  being  otherwise,   for  ma$y  a   wea- 
ry year.     I  was  but  just  entering  a  profession,  perilous, 
and  uncertain.     Many  years  were  to  be  spent  in  my  no- 
vitiate,  for  i  had  no  education.     I  *was  taken  from  school 
at  twelve, — my  mother  was  a  widow7  woman, — poor,  and 
kept  a  school  for  a  living.     And  many  years  more  must 
pass,  before    ought  to  think  of  loving.  What  then?  Was 
there  nothing  noble?     Nothing  of  self  denial?     Nothing 
heroick,  in  this  sacrifice?  I  leave  you  to  answer  it.  Did 
I  not  know  that  the  heart  once  touched — like  the  lips,  with 
a  live  coal, — is  forever  callous  to  all  but  the  like  touches, 
again; — that  the  uninhabited  heart,  will  have  a  substan- 
tial tenant,  evil  or  good — rather  than  be  iiaunted  by  the 
shadow  of  a  departed  loved-one?     Yet  I   left  her—- 
left her,  in  silence in  ignorance  of  rriy  feeling." 

"Well — I  returned  to  my  home — entered  upon  my 
studies — toiled  day  and  night,  as  no  other  man  ever  toiled, 
in  America.  What  was  my  reward?  I  heard  that  she 
was  to  be  married. — Did  I  repine?  No.  I  heard  that  the 
affianced  man  was  worthy  of  her;  that  she  loved  him 
— and  I  was  happy.  Nay— I  had  no  wish  to  disturb 
her — or  him." 


RANDOLPH.  ITS 

"It  happened,  however,  that  one  who  knew  them  both, 
gave  me  good  reason  to  believe  that  I  was  remembered 
yet; — that  he,  the  lover,  was  uneasy,  when  my  name  was 
mentioned;  and,  from  another  quarter,  from  a  man  of  hon- 
est and  substantial  principle,  who  knew  her  well — I  heard 
this,  perhaps  incautiously.  "I  do  not  believe  that  she 
loves  Mr.  G." — (the  name  of  her  lover) — Nay,  the  same 
man  advised  me  to  see  her.  Perhaps  it  was  only  a  piece 
of  pleasantry  in  him — but  I  thought  that  there  was 
some  significance  in  his  manner.  But  I  refused.  Why? 
I  trembled  to  disquiet  a  young  heart,  in  its  pleasant 
dreaming; — for,  if  it  awoke,  what  had  I  to  offer  it? — No- 
thing?— I  was  poor  and  proud — destitute — and  with  a 
prospect  of  being  so,  forever." 

"But,  nevertheless,we  met — met,  just  where  I  had  seen 
her  before.  Twice  were  we  visiters  of  the  same  place — 
at  the  same  time — leagues  and  leagues  from  our  home. 
I  treated  her  as  a  married  woman.  I  spoke  of  her  lover, 
as  her  husband,  for  some  days.  At  last,  however, 
something,  I  know  not  what,  set  me  upon  the  suspicion 
that  she  did  not  love  him,  as  she  could  love — nay,  as  she 
had  loved,  even  in  her  childhood.  I  trembled  for  her. 
Bid  she  love  me  still?  It  were  too  much  to  imagine  that. 
But  that  she  felt  a  deep  and  sincere  respect  for  me,  I 
was  sure.  I  was  afraid  to  trust  myself  with  her.  Two 
or  three  weeks  had  passed,  during  which,  the  letters  of  her 
lover  (who  was  at  a  great  distance,  and  in  the  habit  of 
writing  every  week,)  did  not  arrive.  I  studied  her  coun- 
tenance. There  was  some  concern  in  her  eyes — but  it 
was  not  that  inward,  that  profound,  quiet  agony,  which 
true  love  would  feel;  the  love  that  I  would  inspire.  Other 
circumstances  occurred  to  strengthen  the  suspicion,  one, 
only,  of  which  I  shall  name.  I  was  walking  to  church 
with  her.  I  spoke  of  the  power  that  a  woman  lias,  to  win 
whom  she  pleases.  J  said,  emphatically,  that  it  was  in  her 
power.  She  replied,  in  a  manner  that,  had  we  been 
alone,  it  is  probable  I  should  have  profited  by — that 
if  it  were  true,  she  knew  whom  she  would  win."  She  did 
not  mean  her  lover,  by  that,  I  am  sure; — sure,  from  her 
voices — sure,  because  she  was  not  a  fool; — and  there  was 
Q 


174  RANDOLPH. 

a  mysterious  meaning  in  her  manner,  that  Would  have 
been  ridiculous,  had  she  meant  Mr.  O.  for  what  need  of 
mystery  with  him — every  body  knew  that  she  was  en- 
gaged to  him — No — she  meant  me." 

"But  I  took  no  notice  of  it,  either  then  or  afterward. 
The  time  was  now  at  hand,  for  my  departure.  It  had 
been  unaccountably  delayed;  and  I  was  really  anxious 
to  be  gone.  My  nights  were  troubled  and  sleepless.  I 
retired  early,  but  it  was  not  to  sleep.  If,  said  I,  she 
do  not  love  him;  or,  if  she  do  love  me — what  a  fool  I 
am,  not  to  speak;  should  I  ever  forgive  myself,  were  she 
to  marry  him,  and  be  wretched?  but  would  it  not  he  dis- 
honourable to  break  such  an  engagement  as  theirs  asun- 
der? No — it  was  doing  as  I  would  be  done  by.  That 
was  my  rule  of  action." 

"The  next  day  was  a  sort  of  religious  festival;  and  I 
had  determined  to  stay  no  longer  than,  till  that  was  over. 
In  the  morning,  therefore,  after  breakfast,  contrary  to 
my  usual  custom,  which  was,  to  read  to  the  women,  a 
great  part  of  the  forenoon;  or,  at  least,  to  sit  with  them,  I 
retired  to  another  apartment,  and  began  writing. — There 
is  the  letter,  sir.  Read  it  at  your  leisure.  It  expresses 
all  that  I  felt.  It  occupied  me,  in  writing  and  copying 
it,  nearly  all  the  forenoon;  and  when  I  came  down,  I 
learnt,  to  my  astonishment,  that  Emma,  (let  that  be  her 
name;  it  is  sufficient  for  our  purpose;)  had  gone  to  bed, 
sick.  I  was  alarmed;  but  my  vanity,  which,  like  that 
of  all  others,  I  suppose,  will  find  aliment,  in  unsubstan- 
tial things — colour  and  fragrance  in  the  very  air — made 
me  suspect  the  cause.  I  determined  to  try  the  ques- 
tion fairly.  1  came  down,  and  sat  below; — and  she 
soon  made  her  appearance^  full  of  dignity,  expression, 
and  loveliness.'* 

"The  letter  was  in  my  pocket.  But  how  was  I  to  give 
it  to  her? — when? — I  determined  to  keep  it,  till  I  was 
ready  to  go;  and  leave  it,  beyond  the  reach  of  accident,  in 
her  possession; — for,  you  will  perceive  that  1  took  no 
advantage  of  her  situation.  Had  I  been  the  scoundrel 
that  some  affected  to  think  me,  would  i  riot  have  assailed 
her,  in  the  heat  of  her  resentment  against  the  supposed 


RANDOLPH.  ITS 

neglect  of  Mr.  G?  Would  I  not  have  demanded,  at  least; 
an  immediate  answer?  Would  I  have  put  myself,  as  I  did, 
into  her  power,  without  demanding  that  she  should  put 
herself  at  all  in  mine?  Would  I  have  left  it  in  her  power 
to  take  me,  when  she  pleased,  as  a  sort  of  Hobson's  choice. 
These  are  rational  questions. — Let  the  rational  answer 
them.  No — that  woman  may  not  know  it,  but  I  paid  her 
a  greater  compliment,  than  she  will  ever  receive  again, 
should  she  live  a  thousand  years.  She  may — but  no,  I 
do  not  believe  it — I  was  about  saying,  that  she  may  think 
me  base  and  unprincipled,  t  ut  no — she  knows  me  better. 
Her  own  heart  will  aquit  me.  I  am  willing  to  submit  to 
that.  And  however  she  may  find  it  expedient  to  revile 
me,  or  my  memory,  I  shall  forgive  her,  and  attribute  it 
to  necessity.  She  dare  not  do  me  justice.  But  her  heart 
will  awake — it  will,  am  sure,  one  day  or  other;  and  she 
will  feel  sorry,  and  ashamed  of  having  written  me  such 
a  note,  as  you  will  find  in  the  letter  that  I  gave  you." 

"But  let  me  proceed.  In  the  evening,  as  we  sat  together, 
in  a  mournful  and  distressing,  yet  sweet  silence.  After 
all  the  company  had  gone — no,  I  am  mistaken. — It  was 
before — it  was  early  in  the  evening;  we  had  not  yet  come 
to  the  moment,  when,  about  to  part,  perhaps  forever,  the 
approaching  separation  took  its  most  touching  and  mys- 
terious movement  and  expression.  I  wrote  upon  a  lit- 
tle card,  something  like  this — and  gave  it  to  her.  "I 
have  somewhat  to  communicate  to  you.— Where  shall  I 
leave  it? — It  is  written. — Shall  I  put  it  in  your  little  green 

work  bag,  in  the  sitting  room? "  She  assented,  with 

considerable  emotion.  I  placed  that  letter  in  the  bag. — 
She  secured  it,  and  returned. — I  sat  by  her,  until  I  was 
sure  that  she  could  not  read  it,  before  I  was  gone; — and 
then,  I  bade  them  all  farewell;  and  departed  the  next 
morning,  at  day-light." 

"One  year  afterward,  having  good  reason  to  believe 
that  she  really  would  be  married  to  Mr.  G. — and  being, 
I  confess,  rather  anxious  to  set  myself  free,  from  so  un» 
equal  an  engagement,  I  wrote  to  her,  and  demanded,  ra- 
ther cavalierly,  I  ana  sure,  a  definite  reply;  and  a  return 
of  my  letters. — Nay — to  tell  you  the  whole  truth,  I  had 


176  BANDOLPH. 

already  began  to  think  of  another  woman.  But,  would 
I  have  married  her,  had  she  claimed  my  promise? — Yes — 
By  my  hope  of  heav.cn!  Yes!  though  I  had  heen  mise- 
rable forever,  in  consequence — and  she — and  she  should 
never  have  suspected,  to  my  dying  day,  that  she  had  not 
always  been  the  dearest  idol  of  my  heart.  You  will  find 
her  answer  in  the  same  letter."  (both  of  which,  f  enclose 
to  you,  Sarah;  and  shall  direct  to  Boston.)  "She  never 
wrote  that  answer,  without  advice.  Nor  is  it  true. — 
Her  lover,  or  some  friend,  was  probably  at  her  elbow; 
and  it  is  rather  her  own  vindication,  than  any  thing  else. 
I  do  not  believe  that  she  destroyed  the  letters  immediate- 
ly: nor  ever,  without  first  taking  a  copy; — and  I  know, 
that  she  entertained  far  different  sentiments  of  my  conduct, 
while  left  to  herself;  for  her  own  aunt  says,  in  a  letter, 
which  is  in  my  cabinet  at  this  moment,  and  was  written 
some  days  after  Emma  had  received  "the  papers,"  at 
which  she  affects  to  have  been  so  "incensed,"  that  Emma 
speaks  of  me  with  veneration — no,  that  she  "reverences" 

me » 

That  is  all.     Good  night,  Sarah 

JOHN. 

By  heaven! — I  have  discovered  the  cause  of  Molton's 
horrour.  Last  night  was  the  night  of  William's  murder, 
just  two  years  ago; — no  wonder  that  he  was  afraid  to  be 
alone — — .  0,  Molton ! 


EDWARD    MOLTON   TO   EMMA   RANDALL. 

L ,  2d  Dec.  181-. 

Read  this  alone,  and  where  it  is  not  possible  for  you 
to  be  interrupted.  I  hardly  know  how  to  address  you, 
and  yet  1  feel  an  insupportable  anxiety  to  be  thoroughly 
understood,  before  I  leave  you,  perhaps,  forever.  You 
will  be  surprised,  I  know  you  will,  at  my  writing  you; — 
but  how  else  could  I  communicate  with  you?  You  are 


4 


RANDOXVH.  177" 

too  narrowly  watched — by  your  friends,  I  admit,  those 
who  are,  and  ought  to  be  most  dear  to  you,  but  still,  you 
are  too  narrowly  watched,  to  afford  any  person,  and  par- 
ticularly me,  an  opportunity  of  unreserved  and  uninter- 
rupted conversation  with  you,  upon  any  interesting  sub- 
ject. 

I  had  determined,  when  I  came  here,  to  observe  you 
closely — narrowly,  but  secretly; — to  make  myself  mas- 
ter of  your  character;  and,  if  possible,  of  your  most  hid- 
den thought.  In  some  measure,  I  have  succeeded,  and 
yet— on  the  very  point,  where  I  feel  the  deepest  interest, 
I  am  still  in  doubt.  You  only  can  satisfy  me — to  you 
then,  I  appeal. 

I  did  intend,  too,  to  be  watchful  of  myself;  never  to  be 
thrown  off  my  guard;  to  be  discreet  and  reserved.  But 
I  could  not — I  cannot  be  such  a  hypocrite.  You  have 
prevailed;  I  am  about  to  leave  you,  and  I  cannot,  will 
not  lose  you,  forever,  without  making  one  effort  to  pre- 
serve you — without  first  proving  to  you  that  I  know  your 
value.  1  mi  think  that  1  overrate  it.  You  are  mistaken. 
1  do  not.  I  know  you  as  you  are — as  you  were,  and  as 
you  will  be.  1  cannot  be  deceived.  For  more  than  two 
years,  your  character  has  been  my  study — my  companion 
— my  support  and  impulse.*  This  is  the  truth. 

I  am  frank — perhaps  too  frank; — but  you  must  not  be 
offended.  It  would  be  unworthy  of  you.  I  should  de- 
serve to  be  despised,  derided,  trampled  on,  were  I  the 
dastard  to  conceal  such  a  passion  as  this,  where  I  have 
so  much  at  stake;  and  you  will  not,  from  affectation,  the 
miserable  prudery  of  your  sex,  feel  offended  at  the  decla- 
ration of  one,  who,  whatever  may  be  his  faults,  has  man- 
hood enough  to  speak  as  he  feels. 

Another  thing,  I  had  determined  on,  not  resolutely, 
but  in  some  measure.  It  was  to  treat  you  as  the  wife  of 
another.  It  was  in  vain.  You  are  not  the  wile  of  ano- 
ther, and  I  cannot  so  treat  you,  until  you  are  so  indeed, 
and  beyond,  forever  beyond,  my  reach. 

*  A  lie—by  the  way— M. 


178  KANDOLPH. 

I  did  determine  too, — and  T  mention  these  things,  thai 
you  may  understand  how  feeble,  how  very  feeble  our  best 
resolutions  are,  where  passion  is  not  prevented  from  lay- 
ing her  hand  upon  them — I  did  determine  never  to  say 
"Hove,"  to  any  being  on  earth,  until  I  was  certain  that 
she  would  reply — "Hove."    That  too,  is  done  with. — 
I  shall  break  my  promise,  and  when  I  do,  I  know  that  I 
shall  have  risked  enduring  the  keenest,  the  most  deadly 
humiliation,  that  such  a  spirit  as  mine  can  ever  endure. 
You,  my  dear  friend  (you  must  permit  rne  to  call  you 
so) — regarding  yourself  as  already  engaged,  are  strug- 
gling to  believe  that  the  man,  to  whom  you  are  engaged,  is 
your  husband.  Emma,  I  tremble  for  you.  He  is  not — and 
possibly  never  may  be.     And  what  is  the  engagement? — 
is  it  marriage? — no.     It  is  an  understanding,  that,  if 
your  affections  are  unchanged; — if  both  continue  to  find 
none  whom  they  love  better; — if  both  continue  to  feel,  as 
during  the  first  impulse  of  youthful  affection,  then — both 
shall  be  married  together.     And  that  is  all.    Therefore, 
if  you  love  Mr.  G.  and  he  be,  indeed,  the  man  -who  de- 
serves you;— if  he  be  the  creature,   not  of  romance,  or 
poetry,  but  of  that  towering  elevation  in  real  life,  which 
must  be  the  char acteristick  of  your  companion; — if  he  be 
so  made,  so  fashioned,  as  to  receive  and  communicate  im- 
pulses, that  shall  outlast  this  life; — in  short,  if  he  be  the 
man,  who  is  to  be  your  husband,  and  who  deserves  to  be, 
then  must  he  glory  in  exposing  you  to  competition.     If 
he  tremble — he  is  unworthy  of  you.     If  he  complain, 
though  his  heart  break  under  the  disappointment,  he  is 
not  the  man  to  whom  you  must  look  for  counsel,  comfort 
and  greatness.     For,  is  it  not  better  to  lose  the  womail 
of  your  heart,  than  to  have  her  marry  you,  with  abated 
affection,  merely  from  a  sense  of  duty,  or  propriety?  *Ves 
— he  who  wins  you,  must  be  willing  to  prove  his  confi- 
dence in  you  and  himself,  by  arraying  himself  against 
the  whole  world,  if  it  will  enter  the  list  for  you.     Em- 
ma!— this  is  not  declamation.     It  is  what  I  feel.  I  could 
do  all  this; — nay,  I  would  do  it.     lam  doing,  therefore, 
as  I  would  be  done  by;  and  if  Mr.  G.  be  the  man  that  1  de- 
light in  believing  him  (for  1  would  have  no  humble  com- 


RANDOLPH, 

petitor,)  he  will  be  gratified,  and  proud,  whatever  be  the 
result. 

Now  then,  I  give  you  a  proof  of  it.  I  throw  myself  on 
your  generosity. — I  forget  all  my  pride — I  declare  to 
you  that  /  lave  you — that  I  have  long  loved  you; — that  I 
have  never  so  loved  any  other  woman — never  felt  for 
another,  so  much  of  what  I  would  pray  to  feel,  for  the 
future  companion  of  my  life,  here  and  hereafter — tender- 
ness, admiration  and  respect.  You  are  already  what  I 
would  have  you  be,  so  far  as  your  character  is  develop- 
ed,' and  you  will  be,  all  that  I  would  hope  to  deserve.  I 
am  sure  of  it.  For  myself,  I  am,  whatever  I  am,  chiefly 
on  your  account.*  I  would  be  worthy  of  you.  There  is 
my  proof.  I  address  you  as  my  equal. '  Do  not  believe  that 
I  am  about  asking  any  sacrifice,  on  your  part,  at  this  time. 
Indeed,  1  am  not.  It  is  all  on  mine.  All  that  I  ask  is  this. 
If  you  believe  that  I  may  become  worthy  of  what  I  aspire 
to,  think  of  me,  and  direct  me.  What  I  can  be,  I  will  be 
for  your  sake.  Mould  me  to  your  purpose.  I  know 
what  1  say.  I  do  not  fear  to  say,  that  I  will  become 
what  you  would  wish  me  to  be;  because,  I  know  that  you 
would  never  humble  me  in  my  own  eyes;  that  you  would 
never  request,  what  it  would  be  unworthy  in  me  to  grant, 
or  you  to  receive. 

Again,  I  say — Do  not  believe  that  I  am  aiming  to  en- 
tangle you  in  contradictory  engagements.  No — I  would 
sooner  perish.  Nor,  would  I,  were  I  sure  that  you  loved 
another,  were  I  convinced  that  you  so  loved  him,  as  with 
all  your  boundless  capacity  of  devotion,  you  are  qualified 
to  love,  would  I  open  my  mouth  to  you  on  the  subject. — In- 
deed, the  hour  that  so  convinced  me,  would  be  the  last 
of  our  communion.  I  would  leave  you  forever;  I  would 
never  meet  you  again,  never! 

As  it  is,  then,  I  have  my  doubts.  They  are  not  the 
doubts  of  others;  they  are  my  own,  firm  observation  of 
my  own.  I  care  not  what  Mr.  Stonebridge  says,  or 
others.  They  cannot  understand  you,  or  me.  You  are 
not  made  for  an  ostentatious  display  of  affection. — 
Yours  is  silent,  holy,  unobtrusive  and  mysterious.  There- 

*Another  lie. — M. 


180  BAJTOOLPH. 

fore,  have  I  my  doubts,  and  they  are  terrible. — Your 
happiness — I  care  little  for  my  own,  in  comparison,  your 
happiness,  here  and  hereafter,  is  at  stake. 

Now,  all  that  I  ask  of  you,  is  this.  Remember  me. 
Think  of  me,  sometimes.  Betray  this  communication  to 
no  human  being,  tillyou  are  married.  I  know  that  I  may 
trust  you;  and  you  know  the  value  of  the  trust.  You 
have  that  generosity,  that  made  me  love  you,  not  at  first 
sight,  (for  1  was  not  a  boy,  when  1  saw  you)  but  when  I 
first  made  myself  master ^of  your  character.  This  then, 
is  all  that  I  ask.  Betray  this  to  nobody — to  no  living  crea- 
ture, without  my  consent.  But,  when  you  are  married — 
whether  to  Mr.  G.  or  another,  for  I  feel  that  though  he 
may  not  win  you,  it  is  equally  possible,  and  more  so 
perhaps,  that  I  may  not — you  may  show  him  (your  hus- 
band) this  letter.  If  I  am  alive,  at  that  time,  it  will  be 
the  surest  marriage  portion  that  woman  ever  gave  to 
man.  Nothing  ever  after  will  shake  his  confidence  in 
your  love— if  he  have  a  noble  spirit. 

Do  not  charge  me  with  vanity  here.  I  am  vain.  I 
know  it,  and  am  sometimes  weak  enough  to  glory  in  it. 
It  is  a  diseased  ambition,  I  verily  believe;  and  I  hope 
to  outlast  it.  Still,  in  this  case,  I  do  honestly  and  from 
my  soul,  believe,  that  I  shall  be  a  man,  whom  your  hus- 
band, whatever  he  may  be,  will  be  proud  to  have  had 
sacrificed  to  him. 

In  the  mean  time,  I  shall  hold  on  my  course  steadily. 
You  will  hear  of  me,  but  not  from  me,  unless  you  should 
indeed,  be  all  that  I  could  wish; — and — but  no,  I  must 
not  dream  of  such  things.  Yet  let  me  be  understood. — 
Your  present  engagement  may  come  to  an  end.  Men  and 
women  are  changeable;  our  affections  run  riot  sometimes, 
and  will  not  be  restrained.  If  then — I  say  it  with  trem- 
bling— if  such  an  event  should  take  place;  if,  by  any  event, 
you  should  discover  that  you  cannot  so  love  your  present 
contemplated  husband  as  you  ought,  to  be  able  to  trust 
all  your  happiness  to  him—all  that  I  beg  of  you  is,  to 
let  me  hear  of  it.  1  shall  understand  you.  You  need 
fear  no  change  in  me.  My  constancy  is  not  that  of  bo  vs. 
It  is  that  of  experience  and  examination.  When  I  love, 


RANDOLPH.  181 

it  is  not,  though  my  character  would  justify  a  different 
opinion  sometimes,  it  is  not  precipitately,  without  exam- 
ination. Here  is  an  example.  I  have  never  loved  hut 
two  women.  To  only  one,  have  I  ever  said  so  much. — 
The  other,  and  you  know  her,  thought  that  she  did  not 
love  me.  She  was  mistaken. — She  is  now  going  mar- 
ried, and  broken-hearted,  to  her  grave.  I  did  love  that 
•woman;  I  did,  and  confess  it;  but  not,  as  I  have  loved  you. 
There  was  tenderness  in  it;  hut,  very  little  respect.  I 
never  saw  the  time,  when  I  would  have  married  her,  even 
if  I  had  been  justified  by  my  circumstances.  But,  were 
I  so  justified,  I  would  marry  you;  I  would  come  to  you 
then,  not  in  the  language  of  common  love,  to  throw  my- 
self at  your  feet,  for  you  would  dispise  me,  were  I  so  ab- 
ject— but  to  meet  you  as  a  man  should  meet  a  wo- 
man, with  his  heart  in  his  hand — in  fearless  equality,  re- 
membering that  I  was  paying  to  you  the  most  unequivocal 
homage,  that  I  could  pay  to  any  creature  under  heaven; — 
and,  though  grateful,  to  suffocation  if  you  received  me, 
still  erect  and  confident  of  my  equality.  Such  would  be 

my  conduct,  were  it  allowed  to  me,  so  to  behave. 

Adieu! — farewell! — I  am  already  tedious,  I  fear,  and  yet 
I  have  said  but  little  that  I  would  say.     Farewell!  may 
heaven  bless  you,  Emma.     May  you  find  your  equal — a 
companion  made  to  govern,  not  obey  others. 
§ 

EDWARD    MOLTOtf. 

One  word  more.  You  will  hear  of  my  fickleness — that 
I  am  in  love  with  others.  Do  not  believe  it.  I  am  not. 
I  have  been.  1  have  compared  you  with  many  women, 
in  all  parts  of  our  country;  and  I  am,  nevertheless,  more 
resolutely  attached  than  ever.  For  my  disposition — it 
is  fiery,  I  know.  But  it  is  capable  of  becoming  what- 
ever you  please  to  make  it.  I  am  rash,  to  be  sure;  but, 
when  the  happiness  of  others,  of  them  that  I  love,  is  at 
stake,  I  can  endure  anything.  As  for  what  I  am,  you 
-  already  know  me.  But  I  ask  not  your  answer  to  what  I 
am  now;  but  to  what  I  shall  be.  Hereafter,  you  may 
compare  me  with  whom  you  please.  If  I  cannot  abide 


182  RANDOLPH. 

the  trial,  cast  me  off,  abandon  me,  leave  me.  I  shall  he 
unworthy  of  you.  If  you  go  to  Boston,  you  will  hear 
much  against  me — and  much  in  my  favour.  Believe 
neither.  Judge  for  yourself.  I  know  my  own  character, 
and  what  I  am  capable  of.  No  other  human  being  does. 
When  you  desire  it,  you  shall  know  it,  as  it  is — enthusi- 
astick — impassioned — devoted  and  ambitious — doing 
whatever  it  does — with  all  its  heart,  and  all  its  soul. 

Some  interest,  it  is  possible,  you  may  feel,  respecting 
niy  family.  Much  you  must  feel,  at  some  future  period, 
if  I  should  ever  meet  you  as  I  hope  to.  In  the  mean 
time  you  may  believe  me,  when  I  say  that  it  is,  altoge- 
ther, unexceptionable.  All  are  respectable  and  honest. 
And  some  are  higher  in  the  estimation  of  the  world  than 
mere  honesty  would  place  them.*  They  are  not  fashion- 
able people,  but  they  are  good. 

As  for  my  attention  to  other  girls,  and  "falling  in  leve 
with  every  girl  1  see,"  that  is  altogether  unfounded.  I 
trifle  with,  or  treat  with  respect,  as  they  happen  to  de- 
serve, coquettes  or  fine  women,  when  I  see  them  (and  you 
do  the  same,  with  men^but  as  for  love — never!  That 
is  a  passion  of  no  common  seriousness  with  me.  It  is 
inappeasable.  I  never  felt  it — as  an  enduring  passion, 
but  for  you. 

Remember  me.  I  shall  never  forget  you — and — be  not 
precipitate. 

.  /  i  M. 

(Answer — received  nearly  a  year  afterward — alluded  to 
in  the  conversation  of  Melton. ) 

MR.   MOLTON, 

I  was  this  morning  much  surprised  by  the  reception 
of  another  epistle  from  you;  and  extremely  disappointed 
and  chagrined  at  your  interpretation  of  my  silence,  with 
regard  to  the  paper  (that)  I  found  in  my  possession,  after 
your  departure  from  Leister.  On  the  perusal  of  those 
letters,  1  was  greatly  shocked  and  incensedjf — still  the> 

*Anotber  lie,  meant,  but  not  expressed — M. 
f  A  Jib — ladies  never  lie — M, 


RANDOLPH.  183 

would  have  been  answered — could  I  have  hoped  it  would 
be  believed; — but  bow  could  I  hope  for  any  such  respect, 
from  a  man,  who  believed  me  capable  of  engaging  myself, 
to  a  man  (that)  I  did  not  love  —who  could  presume  (that)  I 
might  be  influenced  in  a  matrimonial  contract,  by  any 
other  consideration  than  that  of  love;  and  this,  your  let- 
ter most  unequivocally  expressed  you  to  presume  and  be- 
lieve. No  person,  entertaining  even  a  tolerable  respect 
for  me,  could  have  supposed  (that)  I  would  engage  to  re- 
pose myself  and  all  my  future  prospects,  upon  the  bosom 
of  a  man,  to  whom  I  had  not  extended  all  the  ''boundless 
devotion  of  my  soul."  No;  every  new  reflection  that  I 
bestow  upon  the  subject,  confirms  me  in  the  persuasion, 
that  1  never  could  hayereceivedyour  papers,  from  a  per- 
son of  honourable  and  virtuous  feeling;  or  who  could 
have  formed  a  just  estimate  of  my  character. 

Could  you  know  me,  and  suppose  (that)  I  would  preserve 
long,  the  letters  alluded  to?  I  assure  you  (that)  the  im- 
pulse to  commit  them  to  the  flames,  was  simultaneous 
with  their  perusal.  I  regret  now  that  I  obeyed  it,  since 
you  request  the  return  of  them.*  I  can  assure  you  (that) 
I  regret  as  sincerely  as  you  can,  the  moment  that  induc- 
ed yon  to  write  them,  for  it  compelled  me  to  consider 
you  in  a  different  light  from  what  I  had  always  hoped  to 
— that  of  a  friend. 

EMMA    B.    RAND  AH. 

JV ,   Oct.  23,  18—. 


( Postscript,  by  John,  to  Sarah,  in  the  envelope. ) 


.  P.  S. — Mistaken  girl!  Where  was  the  mischief  of  that 
letter?  I  pity  her,  Sarah.  Tell  me,  does  it  not  speak 
well  for  Molton?  And  can  you  believe  that  her  answer 
came  from  her  heart — unaided,  untortured?  No!  She 
was  wrought  upon — suspicion  was  infused  into  her  pure 

*  Well  managed.  There  is  no  convicting  one  of  falsehood — who 
talks  in  this  way.  It  is  laio\,er-like — but  may  she  not  have  had  profes~ 
si'tnal  advice  ?  The  mortal  antipathy  that  appears  to  the  relative  (thatj 
would  justify  the  belief  that  she  had — and  that  her  counsel  was  a  law- 
yer— an  American — and  a  Yankee, — JV. 


184  RANDOLPH. 

nature — she  was  made  to  believe  that  Molton  bad  insult- 
ed her — or  sbe  never  would  have  charged  the  writer  of 
that  letter  with  aught  that  was  not** virtuous  and  honour- 
able."    What  did  he  do?     Admit  that  he  was  deceived 
in  supposing  that  she  did  not  love  G. — or  that  she  did  love 
him.  What  did  he  do?     Nothing  but  this,  in  effect.     He 
said  to  her — Your  happiness  is  dearer  to  me  than  my_ 
own*     You  are  about  to  be  sacrificed.     I  may  be  mis- 
taken.    I  hope  that  I  am.     But  if  I  am  right,  call  to  me 
when  you  will,  where  you  will;  and  lo,  I  am  ready  to 
save  you,  at  the  peril  of  my  life  and  soul.  And  this — this 
she  has  dared  to  call  dishonourable  and  unfriendly.  Mis- 
taken woman! — her  own  heart  rebuked  her,  when  she 
wrote  it.  Nay,  it  was  never  written  of  her  own  free  will. 
Her  judgment  was  turned  aside  by  "the  powerful  hand  of 
some  one,  who  never  had  seen,  or  never  had  known,  the 
author  of  that  letter.     Her  manner  is  more  simple  and 
direct.  What  advantage  did  he  take  of  her?   None.   Did 
he  even  attempt  to  steal  into  her  heart?     No.     Did  he 
offer  any  endearment?     No.     Did  he  break  in  upon  ano- 
ther's love?     No! — another  broke  in  upon  his.     What 
did  he,  then?     He  attempted  to  restore  a  woman  to  him, 
whom  he  believed,  to  have  been  herjirst  love.'     Was  this 
sinful?     It  matters  not,  whether  he  was  mistaken  or  not. 
If  he  was  mistaken,  there  was  no  harm  done.     He  did 
not  hurry  her.  He  took  no  profit  of  her  anger,  or  of  his  op- 
portunity; extorted  no  promise; — nay,  avoided  even  a  re- 
ply, that  she  might  have  nothing  to  accuse  herself  of,  if  she 
married  G. — and  yet,  that  she  might  have  a  steadfast 
hold  on  him.     By  heaven,  it  was  the  noblest,  the  most 
disinterested,  and  heroick  evidence  of  love,  unquestion- 
able love,  that  I  ever  met  with! 

I  think,  as  Molton  does,  that  she  will  come  to  her 
senses — that  she  will  repent  of  having  written  that  letter. 
Nay,  if  she  have  any  heart  left,  she  will  weep,  to  think,  how 
unkindly  she  requited  the  greatest  offering  of  a  proud 
spirit — itself.  I  observe  some  pencil  notes,  in  the  hand- 
writing of  Molton;  but  I  have  no  time  to  read  them. 

What  a  packet  I  have  made  of  it!  and  yet,  I  am  strong- 
ly tempted  to  add  another  that  I  received,  this  morning, 


MANDOLPH.  185 

from  my  dear  brother.  He  is  going  to  New-Orleans — 
writes  in  good  spirits.  But  there  is  something  in  it, 
which  I  cannot  put  in  your  way.  I  am  rather  alarmed, 
too,  ahout  him;  and  shall  go  on,  I  think,  to  Charleston. 


Mien* 

JOHN. 


Molton  has  just  sent  me  a  letter.  I  enclose  a  copy. 
Read  it.  What  does  he  mean?  If  my  brother  have  any 
Mood  left,  he  will  return,  and  bring  him  to  an  account. 
Yes,  I  shall  go  to  Charleston  this  very  day,  and  leave 
direction,  with  Jane,  to  forward  any  letters  that  are  left. 


FRANK    TO    JOHN. 

Charleston,  May  IQth,  18—. 

Jfy  dear  Brother, 

I  am  ruined.  Send  me  a  thousand  dollars.  I  have  no 
time  to  relate  the  particulars;  but,  if  you  would  save  me 
from  dishonour,  send  me  the  money.  I  shall  wait  only 
one  post  over  the  time.  I  am  in  good  spirits — very  good 

— can  laugh,  and  talk,  and  play,  and  drink,  and yes, 

yes!  I  am  in  -very  good  spirits. 

We  talk  of  going  to  New-Orleans.  A  passage  thence 
to  South  America,  or  the  peninsula,  I  don't  know  which, 
will  be  the  next  step. 

Is brother,  dear  brother,  for  God's  sake,  write  to 

me,  immediately.  Tell  me,  how  is no  matter  for  the 

name.  Tell  me.  Let  nothing  prevent  you. 

\  like  this  city.  My  letters  have  been  of  service  to  me, 
and  I  am,  continually,  at  some  entertainment  or  other, 
given  in  princely  style,  by  some  of  the  reigning  nabobs. 
But  this O,  curse  this  aftectation.  Brother,  I  can- 
not trifle.  That  day  has  gone  by.  I  am  too  heavy  here; 
too  hot  about  the  temples,  for  laughter.  What  Is  festivity 
to  me? — the  carousal  of  a  charnel  house?— the  feast  of  the 
R 


186  RANDOLPH. 

sick  chamber?    Dear,  dear  Ju ah,  no! the  pale* 

lovely  shadow  went  by  me,  last  night,  in  my  dreams; — > 

and,  I  am  sure,  that,  that no,  no!  I  cannot  speak  it. 

If  it  be  all  over,  seal  your  letter  with  black.    No  matter 
for  the  money,  then— -that  will  be  sufficient.. 

Go  where  I  will,  I  hear  something  of  Molton.  A  gen- 
tleman boards  here,  who  knew  him  in  Philadelphia.  He 
says  that  Molton  courted  a  girl  for  several  years,  there; 
then  persuaded  a  friend  to  take  her  off  his  hands; — that 
the  friend  discovered  something,  just  at  the  critical  mo- 
ment of  marriage; — that  the  affair  was  broken  off; — the 
girl  fell  sick,  and  Molton,  himself,  went  into  the  country 
with  her,  and  his  friend  left  the  city: — that  Molton  renew- 
ed his  addresses;— introduced  another  man  to  her; — af- 
fected to  quarrel  with  her; — was  turned  out  of  the  house 
by  her  father; — that  she  married  the  man  that  Molton  in- 
troduced and  died  in  childbed  a  few  months  afterward. 
John,  is  this  true?  Can  it  be?  Enquire  into  it.  I  give 
you  the  names.  Love  to  Sarah.  Her  name  was  Marion, 

M.  P. 1  find  that  I  have  known  her.  Her  story  made 

many  a  heart  ache. 

FRANK, 


EDWARD  MOLTON  TO  FRANK  OMAR. 

I  owe  you  no  courtesy,  young  man.  But,  you  have 
dared  to  love  Juliet  Gracie;  and  you  cannot  be  en- 
tirely worthless.  Are  you  a  man?  Awake,  then. — 
"Were  you  presumptuous  enough  to  think  of  her,  and  yet, 
so  feeble  of  spirit*  as  to  throw  away  your  life  and  facul- 
ties, like  a  foolish  boy,  at  your  first  disappointment? — 
You  do  not  respect  me.  It  is  your  own  fault.  Come  to 
me,  and  I  will  make  you  respect  me. 

You  cannot  support  adversity.  How  then,  could  you 
calamity;  humiliation;  poverty,  and  death — with  a  help- 
less woman — a  family,  perhaps,  dependant  upon  you£ — 
For  shame,  Omar.-— I  know  your  brother.  He  is  younger 
than  you;  but,  on  some  accounts,  I  would  rather  trust 


RANDOLPH.  I8f 

the  happiness  of  Juliet  to  his  keeping,  than  to  yours. 
Do  not  be  startled; — do  rv>t  threaten  me; — do  not  distrust 
me.  It  would  be  idle.  There  is  no  time  to  lose. 
Come  back — come  back.  Juliet  is  at  my  disposal.  Do 
as  I  bid  you,  and  she  may  be  yours.  A  plot  is  working 
for  her  destruction.  Come  quickly,  or  you  will  be  too 
late.  You  are  poor.  No  matter — I  have  enough,  and 
to  spare.  Are  you  jealous  of  me?  Come  to  me,  and  I 
will  satisfy  you,  that  you  have  no  cause — that  I  cannot, 
will  not  see  her  again,  while  there  is  life  in  me.  Do  you 
tremble  for  the  past?  Then,  you  are  unworthy  of  her. 
If  her  face  be  not  a  guarantee  that  you  cannot  doubt,  you 
are  too  base  of  spirit,  too  base  indeed,  for  her  happiness. 
I  make  no  professions.  I  say  nothing  of  the  past.  Once, 
I  loved  her.  I  love  her  yet; — but  we  can  never  be  mar- 
ried. And  it  will  be  your  fault,  if  she  ever  know  that  I 
love  her.  Her  happiness  is  dear  to  me.  I  have  made 
some  inquiry  about  you;  and  I  believe  that  you  are  better 
fitted  for  her,  than  any  other,  whom  I  know.  Dare  you 

come?  nothing  else  can  save  her .    The  conspirators 

are  at  the  work  of  death. 

ED:  MO t TON. 

I  fear  that  you  are  a  gambler.  If  you  are — Sir — be- 
ware. Do  not  approach  me.  I  would  rather  encoun- 
ter a  murderer.  I  would  rather  put  an  angel  into  the 
arms  of  one,  reeking  with  the  blood  of  his  own  father. 
What  is  Ae,  but  the  murderer  of  soul  and  body — wife  and 
children — father  and  mother — people  and  kindred? 


MOLTON  TO  ASHTON. 

Rero.  Mr.  C.  Ashton — London. 

For  the  work  which  you  have  sent  me,  sir,  please 
to  accept  my  sincere  thanks.  I  have  not  yet  been  able 
to  study  it,  as  I  could  wish; — but  I  have  read  it,  with 
some  diligence;  and,  when  I  have  a  little  more  leisure, 
which  I  hope  to  have,  after  a  few  weeks,  I  shall  make  it 


J  RANDOLPH. 

a  point,  to  go  over  the  whole  again,  carefully  and  delib- 
erately. 

'  I  did  not  flatter  myself  that  I  was  remembered  by  the 
author;  or  even  by'yourself;  for,  though  my  acquaintance 
with  you,  was  short  and  accidental,  that  which  I  had 
with  him,  was  still  more  so.  But  it  would  be  in  vain  to 
deny,  that  i  feel  myself  flattered,  by  your  remembrance, 
and  notice.  Perhaps,  indeed,  my  pleasure  is  not  a  little 
enhanced,  by  the  recollection  of  what  would  otherwise, 
have  been  a  subject  of  pain;  the  extremely  short  and  un- 
frequent  opportunities  that  we  had,  of  becoming  acquain- 
ted. They  left  me  no  right  to  hope  for  your  remembrance; 
and  therefore,  I  believe,  that  it  is  the  more  flattering. 

You  were  one  of  the  very  few  men,  whom  I  saw  abroad, 
that  seemed  to  entertain  an  enlarged,  and  understanding 
sense  of  the  American  character.  You,  I  have  heard 
defend  it,  in  a  manner  that  brought  tears  into  my  eyes. 
I  was  an  American.  You  did  not  know  it.  I  was  young; 
unknown;  and,  whether  from  constitutional  coldness, 
and  reserve  in  m«,  hindering  or  rebuking  all  advances; 
a  deportment  too  dark  and  unbending;  or  a  countenance 
too  haughty  and  repulsive,  to  each  of  which,  I  have 
heard  the  consequence  attributed; — /  had  no  friend; 
none,  certainly,  among  men  of  my  own  age.  There 
were  a  few,  a  very  few  of  the  wise  and  experienced,  who, 
at  times,  condescended  to  make  use  of  me; — nay,  there 
were  two  or  three*  and  God  \\ill  reward  them  for  it, 
older,  and  better,  and  greater,  than  the  mass  of  mankind, 
who  loved  and  respected  me; — made  me  their  companion 
and  their  friend.  Mr.  Ashton,  I  have  a  proud  heart. 
I  would  sooner  die,  than  be  the  cause  of  humiliation,  to 
one  human  being,  that  truly  loved  me.  And,  therefore, 
though  they  'were  my  friends,  the  world  knew  it  not. 
There  were  but  few,  whom  I  ever  permitted  to  see  us 
together.  I  never  spoke  of  them.  I  never  boasted  of 
their  affection  or  reverence;- — no,  for  it  would  have  been 
discreditable  to  them.  The  world  had  its  prejudices. 
For  myself,  I  scorned  them.  I  knew  that  the  time  must 
come,  when  those  prejudices  would  be  forgotten.  But  I 
was  unwilling  to  associate  another,  with  me,  in  the  mor» 


.RANDOLPH. 

tal  desolation  that  encompassed  me,  till  then.  On  this 
account,  when  a  stranger  gave  me  his  hand,  it  was  re- 
ceived with  a  swelling  of  the  heart;  a  choking,  that 
none  but  men  who  have  my  feeling,  and  have  heen  as 
cruelly  misunderstood,  can  have  an  idea  of.  He,  1  knew, 
could  have  no  light  motive  for  the  movement.  He  could 
not  be  reaching  after  popularity,  or  influence.  He  could 
not  be  seeking  for  an  acquaintance,  merely;  for  there  was 
that,  I  trust,  in  my  face,  little  encouraging  to  such  men. 
I  could  not  flatter.  I  would  not.  If  a  man  were  good, 
I  could  think  well  of  him.  If  he  were  religious,  I  could 
respect  him.  But  he  must  be  more  than  either;  more 
than  both:  more  than  a  good  and  religious  man,  too; — 
for  me  to  remember  his  face  till  the  next  day. 

You  did  this.  You  dared  to  single  me  out.  I  knew 
the  risk  that  you  run.  The  most  charitable  thought 
that  you  were  mistaken  and  infatuated;  many  wondered 
at  you;  and  some  scrupled  not  to  think  you  a  bad  man, 
because  >ou  associated  with  me.  What  had  I  done? 
nothing — nothing.  They  were  my  enemies;  and  they 
knew  not  why.  They  have  since  become  my  friends;  and 
on  just  as  good  a  foundation.  They  then  thought  too 
humbly  of  me.  Now,  they  have  gone  to  the  other  ex- 
treme. They  think  too  well  of  me.  I  look  for  a  change 
of  tide.  I  expect  it; — it  will  not  ebb  quite  as  far  as  it 
did  before: — but  if  it  did,  it  would  not  move  me.  I  wish 
that  I  had  met  you  again,  after  our  last  conversation. 
I  intended  it,  but  my  sudden  departure,  which  I  take  it 
for  granted,  you  have  not  heard  of,  or  do  not  so  cruelly 
condemn  nie  for,  as  others  do — or  you  would  not  have 
written  to  me,  prevented  me  from  fulfilling  my  appoint- 
ment. It  was  a  painful  thing  to  me,  to  disappoint  you; — 
it  always  is,  to  me,  to  break  an  engagement; — but  I 
felt  an  uncommon  solicitude  for  your  good  opinion. 

Old  as  you  were,  Mr.  Ashton,  surrounded  as  you 
were  by  men,  mighty  in  the  ways  of  philosophy,  I  should 
have  embraced  you  on  th6  spot,  when  you  uttered  your 
testimony  in  behalf  of  my  country,  had  I  not  been  re- 
strained by  respect  for  you.  I  was  an  American; — 
nameless  then — but  I  should  not  be  long  so— I  was  sure 


,;     .»   ,,  ,  ^,-,^rr  ... 

190  JRANDOLPH. 

of  that — events  were  then  maturing,  which,  I  had  reason 
td  believe,  would,  in  their  mystery  and  blackness,  soon 
tyast  my  reputation.  Would  I  involve  you  in  my  fate? 
^To.  And  therefore,  it  was  that  I  refused  your  invita- 
tions and  avoided  you,  so  frequently  as  I  did.  *  I  had  no 
other  way.  1  am  naturally  ingenuous;  but,  had  I  avow- 
ed the  simple  truth,  you  would  have  pursued  me, in  spite 
of  my  wishes,  and  partaken,  assuredly  in  my  dishonour. 

Thank  God,  however,  that  you  have  not  forgotten  me. 
Thank  God! — and  I  do  thank  him,  my  dear  sir,  in  the 
sincerity  of  my  whole  heart  and  soul,  that  you  have  had 
the  courage  to  remember  me,  and  appeal  to  me,  for  the 
truth  of  that  story.  You  shall  know  the  truth.  There 
is  only  one  other  man  on  earth  that  knows  it.  And  I 
inform  you,  sir,  as  I  would  my  father.  Make  what  use 
of  it  you  please.  But  observe — I  do  not  tell  you  the 
whole  truth;  I  am  only  at  liberty  to  tell  that  which  con- 
cerns myself. 

Helen — whose  family  you  must  know  something  of, 
and  1,  once  met,  under  circumstances  of  a  very  trying 
nature.  She  loved  me.  She  was  lovely — intelligent — 
and,  as  I  thought,  her  own  mistress.  We  met  frequently. 
She  did  runaway  from  her  guardian; — and  she  did  conceal 
herself  for  several  days; — but,  contrary  to  the  general 
belief,  I  do  declare  to  you  that  I  never  saw  her,  until  about 
two  hours  before  I  restored  her  to  her  home.  Yes — it 
was  I,  that  restored  her.  I  was  amazed  at  her  rashness; 
and,  it  was  not  till  I  heard  the  whole  story  of  her  suffer- 
ing, that  I  could  persuade  myself  to  believe,  that  one  so 
young  and  beautiful,  so  passionately  beautiful,  could 
have  so  forgotten  her  station,  for  an  adventurer; — for 
what  was  I5  but  an  adventurer?  True,  I  was  not  base 
enough,  nor  wicked  enough,  to  seek  her  destruction;  but, 
when  she  was  within  my  power; — nay,  I  will  not  boast 
of  it — others  would  have  done  the  same — I  spared  her. 
I  represented  to  her  the  consequences  of  her  act — to  her 
friends — her  family — herself.  She  trembled  and  wept. 
She  even  told  me  how  long  she  had  been  absent  and 
where.  I  was  thunderstruck.  I  feared  that  it  would  be 
a  death  blow  to  her  fame— and  I  said  so.  Her  reply  was 


HANDO!PH.  191 

a  delirious  laugh; — and  the  next  moment,  I  was  alarmed 
by  a  noise  at  the  door.  "I  am  pursued,"  said  she — "it 
is  he!  It  is  he!  I  took  down  my  sword.  I  planted  my- 
self at  the  door.  I  would  have  slain  the  first  man  that 
entered,  at  such  a  moment,  had  it  been  mine  own  father. 
We  were  mistaken.  It  was  not  the  scoundrel,  at  whose 
name,  the  poor  creature  shivered  like  a  maniac,  before, 
her  keeper.  But  it  was  one  that  had  pursued  her  to  my 
room.  She  smiled  bitterly,  when  she  knew  the  truth, — 
very  bitterly ;  and  I  do  believe,  rejoiced  at  the  consum- 
mation of  their  guilt*  not  of  hers. 

We  immediately  departed — I  took  a  carriage;  and,  on 
the  route,  brought  her  to  some  sense  of  her  desperate 
rashness.  I  was  poor — miserably  poor— helpless,  and 
beset.  What  should  I  do  with  a  wife?  She  interrupted 
me,  by  producing  a  quantity  of  jewels,  that,  with  my  lit- 
tle acquaintance  in  such  matters,  appeared  of  great  price. 
My  amazement  increased.  What  was  I  to  think  of  her? 
Was  her  brain  turned?  Was  she  a  spoiled  girl,  sick  with 
novel  reading?  She  was  very  young,  only  17;  had  just 
been  presented; — ,was  exceedingly  sought  after,  even  in 
her  retirement,  out  of  which  she  had  emerged,  at  the  in- 
stance of  some  quality  lady,  who  was  a  distant  relation. 
We  had  met  but  now  and  then; — and  my  deportment  had 
been,  merely  that  of  earnestness  and  frankness.  On 
other  themes,  too,  she  exhibited  a  sober  and  well  disci- 
plined mind.  What  was  I  to  think?  It  could  not  be 
love  for  me.  I  demanded  the  truth.  She  told  me. — 
Gracious  God, — my  very  blood  leaped  in  my  veins.  She 
showed  me  the  evidences  of  a  barbarity  so  horrible,  that 
I  could  have  gone  out  against  an  army  to  avenge  it.  All 
these  things  were  to  compel  her  to  marry,  either  her  guar- 
dian, or  his  son;  for  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  they 
had  embezzled  the  chief  part  of  her  estate;  and  were  wil- 
ling to  avoid  their  accountability  in  that  way.  But 
enough.  She  consented,  at  last,  to  return.  But  only 
on  this  condition;  for  the  performance  of  which.  I  pledged 
myself — promising,  if  it  were  violated,  to  assist  her.  in 
any  way  that  she  pleased  against  them.  The  condi- 
tion was  that  they  should  forbear;  and  leave  her  entire- 


192  BANDOLPIi. 

Iy  to  herself.  I  wrote  a  letter — which  was  returned  to 
me  unopened.  I  am  not  a  man  to  forget  such  things.  But 
I  can  forgive  them. 

I  did  forgive  this.  But  I  had  soon  reason  to  repent  of 
my  forbearance.  I  was  publickly  insulted.  I  bore  it — 
why? — because  appearances  were  against  me.  1  was 
called  a  seducer, — by  whom? — by  Clinton  Howard, 
the  brother  of  Helen. — He  would  never  have  left  my  pre- 
sence, had  I  not  discovered  that  fact.  I  had  already 
prepared  myself.  Another  word — and — but  no.  1  could 
have  done  it. 

After  this  I  met  with  you.  I  loved  you  at  first  sight. 
By  this,  I  mean,  not  that  I  thought  of  you  then,  as  I  do 
now,  or,  as  I  hope  to,  hereafter — but,  merely,  that  I  felt 
drawn  to  you,  with  affection  and  respect. 

The  very  next  day,  after  we  last  met,  I  was  passing 
the  square  near  where  my  chambers  were — when  I  heard 
some  one  calling  out  my  name,  behind  me. — I  turned — 
A  hackney  coach  was  approaching  at  great  speed; — as 
it  came  near,  the  blinds  were  let  down  and  I  saw  Helen. 
Her  hair  was  dishevelled — and  I  suspected  some  violence. 
I  was  mistaken.  The  coachman  drew  up,  and  I  enter- 
ed. She  was  alone,  splendidly,  beautiful,  attired — with 
her  dress  stained  here  and  there — and  stiffened  with  what 
I  discovered  to  be  blood-— her  own  blood!  My  horrour 
and  rage  were  ungovernable.  She  had  just  escaped  from 
the  ruffians; — and  I,  with  the  little  money  that  I  then  had 
about  me,  abandoned  my  lodgings. — I  have  never  set  my 
foot  within  them,  since. 1  was  indifferent  about  pur- 
suit; but  she,  poor  Helen,  she  was  distracted,  and  over- 
come, by  her  distress  arid  fear.  With  a  feeling  of  res- 
pect for  her  desolation,  I  went  immediately,  took  a  li- 
cense, an  irregular  one,  I  admit,  but  I  did  not  then  know- 
it — and,  (it  was  all  that  I  could  get  without  going  to 
Scotland;)  and,  in  an  hour  from  the  time  when  I  first  met 
her,  I  had  a  title,  the  truest  and  holiest  title,  that  the 
protector  of  woman  can  have.— /ti-rts  her  husband. 

Yet,  I  cannot  deny  that  there  are  times  when  we  are 
both  of  us  troubled  in  a  manner,  that  I  should  deem  un- 
accountable, were  it  not  for  the  nature  of  our  marriage. 


RANDOLPH,  193 

I  cannot  help  feeling,  that,  while  there  is  any  doubt 
about  the  legality  of  it,  our  endearment  is,  I  know  not 
hardly  how  to  express  myself,  is  not,  what  I  would  have 
it,  altogether  incapable  of  misrepresentation; — and  to 
her,  it  is  infinitely  more  trying.  But,  in  my  own  justi- 
fication, however,  I  ought  to  apprise  you,  that  I  did  not 
know  of  any  informality  in  the  marriage,  until  about 
eight  months  ago.  I  was  deceived.  Helen  was  under 
a  strange  mistake.  After  our  first  adventure,  she  had 
employed  counsel — why,  I  never  troubled  myself  to  ask, 
who  told  her  that,  a  license  taken  out  in  a  dissenting 
Chapel,  without  a  publication  of  the  banns,  would  be 
complete  authority.  Alas,  for  our  errour — we  were 
both  cheated  by  it; — and,  remain  now,  only  man  and 
wife  in  the  eyes  of  God — not  even  in  our  own  eyes — assu- 
redly not  in  hers,  with  a  feeling  of  absolute  guiltiness 
now  and  then,  to  disquiet  us,  till  we  have  an  opportunity 
of  re-marrying.  I  care  little  for  ceremony — but  I  care 
much  for  the  legitimacy  of  my  children.  And  she,  poor 
heart,  would  be  crazed,  but  for  our  temporary  separation 
which  we  immediately  agreed  to,  when  I  discovered  the 
irregularity: —  The  change  of  her  name — and  the  artifice 
(which  I  was  brought  to  adopt — I  hardly  know  how)  of 
passing  her  off  for  my  sister. — But  I  will  not  endure  it 
much  longer.  The  heat  of  the  pursuit  is  nearly  over, 
now; — and  I  hope  soon  to  obtain  her  consent  to  another 
marriage,  by  her  true  name,  inpublick.  She  is  very  averse 
to  it,  now—but  that  I  attribute  to  her  recent  alarm. 

But  the  catastrophe.  After  our  marriage,  we  departed. 
We  were  pursued.  I  found  that  Helen  had  large  sums 
of  money  in  her  possession.  They  were  bank  notes, 
and  as  it  was  my  intention  to  leave  all  my  affairs  and 
embark  for  the  continent  of  America,  I  spared  no  expense, 
therefore,  after  exchanging  the  notes. — We  arrived  at 
the  coast,  and  there,  were  intercepted.  The  scoundrel 
who  had  abused  her,  was  at  ,our  heels.  He  dared  to  claim, 
my  wife.  Nay,  he  put  his  ruffian  hand  upon  her,  in 

wrath What  did  I?— I  drove  my  dirk  up  to  thehilt, 

in  his  side.  I  left  him,  weltering  in  his  blood.  And 
now,  we  are  in  America. 

EDWARD   MOITON, 


194  BANDOLPH. 

FRANK   OMAR   TO   EDWARD    M01TON. 

"Who  are  you,  sir?  Whence  are  you,  that  you  dare  t« 
address  a  letter  to  me? — and  such  a  letter!  Mr.  Edward 
Molton,  I  know  you.  You  are  a  scoundrel.  I  shall  sail 
to-day.  But,  were  not  my  haggage  on  board,  at  this  mo- 
ment, I  would  measure  blades  with  you,  before  I  slept. 
Be  not  too  secure.  I  know  more  of  you,  than  you  sus- 
pect. Where  did  yonjirst  encounter  William?  Are  you 
sure  that  he  had  fair  play? — sure? 

I  have  done  with  you.  But,  mark  me!  We  shall  meet 
again.  And  then — I  do  not  threaten  you — but  your  in- 
sulting proposition  will  not  be  forgotten.  What!  would 
you  have  me  believe,  that  you  could  dispose  of  her9  too. 
Accursed  scoundrel — the  thought  is  madness.  1  prefer 
thinking  you  a  liar — than  classing  her  with  Marion,  M. 
P. What!  does  that  name  startle  you?  MMton!  Mol- 
ton! if  the  han^f  the  Almighty  spare  you,  tUi  my  return, 
I  will  do  my  liest  to  offer  you  up  in  sacrifice  to  the  bro- 
ken heart  of  that  mother;  and  the  untimely,  blasted  fruit 
of  your  villany.  No — I  will  not  obey  you!  The  story 
of  your  power  is  a  lie — or  she— the  blessed  martyr — sh* 
is  another  Marion. 

F.  OMAR. 


Answer  to  the  foregoing,  enclosed  in  one  from  Jane  to  John. 

Fool — The  consequences  be  upon  your  own  head. 

E.  MOI/TON, 

To  Francis  Omar,  Charleston,  8.  C.         V 
To  bejorwarded  wherever  he  may  be.f 


JANE   TO   JOHN — ENCLOSING   THE   ABOVE, 

O,  Mr.  Omar,  tell  your  brother  to  beware.  I  know 
not  what  he  has  done — what  said — but  *  saw  Molton's 
eyes,  when  he  gave  our  servant  the  letter^ — and  I  know 
him. 

, 


RANDOLPH.  195 

If  your  brother  be  not  gone  —  make  him  go  immediately. 
Don't  let  him  come  here.  Don't  let  Molton  meet  him 
there.  There  is  no  help  for  him,  if  they  encounter.  - 
What  has  lie  done?—  not  insulted  him?  —  that  he  could 
bear.  What  has  he  imagined?  —  nought  of  dishonour  to 
him?—  for  that  he  would  smile  at.  There  is  only  one 
thing  that  I  can  suppose  —  and,  if  it  be  that  —  O,  Uod! 
there  is  nothing  on  this  earth  can  save  him.  Perhaps  he 
has  slandered  that  woman  —  that  Helen!  -  Is  it  so? 

JANE. 


SARAH  RAMSAY   TO   FRANK  OMAR.  ' 

I  know  the  contents  of  the  letter  —  no  matter  how.  — 
Enough  for  our  purpose,  that  I  know  them;  and  foresee- 
ing the  consequences,  have  written  as  I  have. 

Be  not  rash,  my  friend.  There  is  more  meaning  in 
Molton's  offer  than  you  have  been  aware  of.  You  have 
fallen  into  the  pit  that  he  dug  for  you.  You  have  forever 
abandoned  —  what  you  ought  to  have  clung  to,  as  your 
life  and  blood  —  Juliet.  Nay,  have  you  not  dishonoured 
her  in  your  thought?  What  is  the  conspiracy  that  he  al- 
ludes to?  There  is  meaning  in  it.  Who  are  the  plotters? 
Be  not  precipitate.  But,  as  you  value  me—as  you  value 
Juliet  —  O,  avoid  Molton.  Your  reply  —  I  know  not  what 
it  was  —  but  it  has  parched  his  heart  up.  He  has  devoted 
you.  Be  a  hero,  for  once  —  O,  do!  my  beloved  cousin, 
and  avoid  the  murderer.  What  have  you  to  fear?  He 
is  a  coward.  I  have  said  so  from  the  beginning,  —  have 
I  not?  But  a  coward  may  assassinate,  or  poison.  Yet, 
if  you  do  meet  —  which  righteous  heaven  avert  —  before 
you  join  battle,  throw  my  defiance  in  his  teeth.  Woman 
as  I  am,  I  contemn  and  dare  him,  to  his  utmost.  Once 
I  did  this  before  Jane.  Why?  Because  I  saw  her  turn 
pale.  I  never  shall  forget  fcdr  looks.  We  were  not  friends, 
then.  "Much  as  I  hate  thee,  Sarah,"  said  she  to  me,  "I 
would  not  have  Molton  hear  that,  for  the  wide  world.  — 


196  KANDOLPH. 

It  would  be  thy  destruction.  He  never  was  braved  with 
impunity.  Nay,  woman — thy  eyes  may  flash,  and  thy 
lip  curl; — but  I  have  seen  a  mightier  than  thou — a 
haughtier  one,  too — at  his  feet,  in  tears,  for  having  said 
less  of  him."  I  remember  her  words.  I  remember  her 
looks.  They  awed  and  intimidated  me.  There  was  a 
mystery  and  a  terrour  in  them.  But  I  forget  them,  now 
— I  forget  every  thing.  Thy  safety  only  do  I  consult. 
I  have  a  secret  champion  ready  for  him.  I  know  not  who 
he  is; — but  there  is  his  gauntlet — (a  packet  was  enclos- 
ed)— and  I  will  vouch  for  him.  Give  that  to  Molton,  if 
you  ever  meet.  I  am  assured  of  the  power; — it  is  a 
charm,  a  spell,  a  talisman,  before  which,  his  arm  will 
fall  lifeless.  I  know  not  what  it  is — I  do  not  even  ima- 
gine. But  carry  it  forever  about  you; — let  nothing  tempt 
you  to  lay  it  aside; — for  he  may  fall  upon  you  in  the 
darkness  and  solitude — he  may — (of  that  I  am  assured.) 

In  my  next  to  John,  I  will  enclose  one  of  several  notes, 
that  I  have  received,  lately,  from — I  know  not  whom. — 
I  have  never  answered  them.  I  knew  not  who  it  is,  or 
what;  but  no  guardian  angel  ever  did  his  ministering 
more  diligently.  I  have  Molton's  whole  life  before  me. 

know  every  spring  of  his  heart; — and,  terrible  as  he  is, 
I  almost  pant  to  encounter  him,  that  I  may  open  the 
mysterious  packet,  and  confound  him,  Torever,  and  at 
once. 

Am  I  not  strangely  altered?  I  know  not  what  pos- 
sesses me.  What  should  I  have  thought,  six  months  ago, 
had  any  one  said,  that  I  should  live  to  receive  anonymous 
letters — treasure  them  as  I  do  these — doat  on  them — and 
even — my  hand  trembles,  and  1  blush  to  the  ends  ef  my 
fingers,  at  the  thought — even  begin  to  meditate  a  reply. 
Yes,  there  are  some  things  that  I  must  ask.  I  will — if 

it  be  only  to  detect  all  the  villany  of  Molton.     Ha! 

would  any  other  theme  have  so  excited  me,  so  impelled 
me,  headlong,  as  this  has?  Cousin,  I  cannot  pray.  It  dis- 
tresses me.  Gradually,  have  I  left  off  the  habit; — yet,  O! 
it  had  become  cold — cold  and  sad,  lo»tg  before  I  dared 
to  omit  it.  1  here  was  a  rime;  but  ah,  that  time  has  pas- 


KANDOiPH.  197 

sed — when  I  could  not  sleep,  if  I  had  omitted  my  prayers. 
But  now — alas.  I  cannot  sleep,  do  what  I  will;  and  I 
dare  not— cannot  pray . 

Farewell 

..  i  .  SAB  AH. 

Boston 

P.  S. — In  my  next,  I  will  enclose  one  of  my  corres- 
pondent's notes — John  will  tell  you  more  about  him; — 
and  I  have  no  objection  that  you  should  contrive  to  let 
Molton  get  possession  of  it.  I  should  like  to  see  him,  then. 


JULIET   TO   MADAM   YERNON. 

Ah,  my  mother!  I  must  unburden  my  heart  to  you.—- 
I  cannot,  cannot  live  any  longer,  without  sympathy. 
Pity  me,  dear  madam,  pity  me.  I  am  worthy  of  all 
your  commiseration.  Yet  why  should  1  repine?  Are  not 
these  trials,  painful  and  distressing  as  they  are,  to  be 
borne  with  a  submissive  spirit?  O  yes,  I  feel  that  they 

are; — but  then no — I  cannot  tell  you  more  than  this 

— that  I  am  wretched.  I  do  not  complain  that  I  am 
spared  a  little  longer;  ah  no,  but  I  do  think  that  death 
would  be  less  terrible  to  me  now,  than  I  have  thought  it. 
I  do  pray  for  that  consolation,  which  He  only  can  give  to 
a  wounded  and  broken  spirit.  Can  I  not  come  to  you? 
I  know  your  poverty; — it  distresses  me  to  hint  such  a  de- 
sire, because  I  know  that  it  will  almost  kill  you  to  refuse 
me.  But — indeed,  you  know  not  how  I  am  beset. 

There  is  an  amiable  man  continually  about  me  of  late. 
J  know  not  what  to  think  of  him;  for  his  countenance  is 
good,  and  his  deportment  mild  and  winning.  But  what  is 
he  here,  for?  I  cannot  but  see  that  there  is  some  motive. 
I  hope  that  i  am  not  vain;  but,  really,  dear  aunt,  I  do  sa 
wish  to  be  released  from  his  attentions:  they  are  too  pain- 
ful to  me.  The  shock  that  I  have  had, — the  consump- 
tion— I  mean — it  has  made  me  too  cruelly  sensitive;  and 
shattered  my  whole  constitution.  Sometimes  too,  this 
man,  (Mr.  Gren  ville  is  his  name)  sits  by  me,  for  whole 
S 


198  RANDOLPH. 

hours,  in  that  hreathless,  intense ah,  what  am  I  say- 
ing,— no,  1  will  not  think  of  the  resemblance.  I  will 
arouse  myself.  O  my  mother— I  can  speak  to  thee;— 
and,  to  whom  else  can  I  speak?  He,  whom  thou.  thy- 
self, didst  appoint  to  me; — even  he,  is  a  villain.  He 
thinks  that  I  love  him.  He  is  mistaken.  He  is  base. 
I  cannot  love  him — tor  how  can  we  love,  what  we  cannot 
respect?  No,  no;  and  yet,  at  the  mention  of  his  name — 
the  sound  of  approbation,  where  he  is  concerned,  O, 
1  shiver  and  burn  all  over.  I  am  poor — help- 
less— destitute.  Is  there  any  succour  for  me?  A  heart 
so  sore — so  desolate?  I  know  not  aunt;  but  a  thought — 
it  was  a  terrible  one — a  thought  came  to  me  once,  in  my 
desperation;  and  I  have  not  shuddered  at  its  return; — 
yet,  every  nerve  of  my  body  shook,  as  with  electricity, 
at  first.  I  know  not  what  I  should  do — I  am  very 
wretched — very.  Were  it  not  wicked,  I  should  pray 
never  to  arise  from  that  bed — that,  to  which  I  am  now 
going. 

JULIET  JR.    GRACIE. 


JANE   TO   MATILDA. 

Grenville  is  a  blockhead.  I  have  no  patience  with  him, 
There  he  sits,  moping  all  night  long,  by  the  side  of  Juliet, 
without  opening  his  mouth;  and  only,  now  and  then, 
catching  his  breath,  as  the  tune  changes.  What  a  pity 
that  so  handsome  a  fellow  should  be  such  a  fool.  We 
must  manage  our  cards  well,  or  he  will  never  get  her; 
for  she  is  prodigiously  improved.  Nay,  aunt — it  gives 
me  the  headach,  sometimes,  to  think  on  what  we  have 
prepared  for  her.  She  looks  so  lovely; — so  beautiful, — 
so  innocent;  and  then*  her  voice!  I  have  heard  it  com- 
pared to  a  bugle,  over  the  water — but  a  bugle,  a  silver 
bugle,  is  not  so  clear  and  sweet.  It  is  more  like  a  bell 
ringing  in  the  sky.  Ah,  my  dear  aunt,  if  that  stupid 
fellow  would'nt  sit  by  her,  so;  and  look  so  sad  and  sorry 
— just  as  if  he  had  eaten  too  heartily  of  cold  apple  dump- 


RANDOLPH. 


199 


ling — she  might  he  a  most  enviahle  woman — spend  all 
her  life  between  tract  societies,  and  prayer  meetings,  and 

love  feasts — the  happiest  creature! ah,  who  can  h'flp 

gaping? "To  suckle  fools  and  chronicle  small  beer" 

— kill  spiders,  darn  rags,  and  whip  children — O.  there's 
nothing  so  pleasant.  Nothing  '-half  so  sweet  in  life" — 
and  then,  if  she  should  happen  to  lose  one  of  her  babes-~ 
why,  it  is  only  giving  her  new  bonnet  to  quiet  her.  I 
have  known  it  succeed,  more  than  once,  with  bereaved 
mothers!  You  see  that  I  am  in  excellent  spirits.  You 
think  so,  do  you?  Aunt,  I  could  sit  down  and  cry,  with 
a  good  stomach — this  moment.  I  don't  believe  that  I 
shall  live  long.  I  have  been  reading  a  system  of  domes- 
tick  medicine; — don't  laugh  at  me — and,  at  every  page  I 
found  myself  afflicted  with  some  new  disorder.  Well, 
well — come  on,  come  on,  directly,  as  you  have  promised; 
make  Grenville  hold  up  his  head,  and  look  like  a  man; — 
and  then — aunt, — my  dear  aunt,  I  have  a  fearful  secret 
to  communicate  to  you.  Do  you  not  feel  cold  about  the 
heart!  1  do — but  it  is  done.  No  eye  to  witness  it — 
none,  ft  was  tremendously  dark.  It  thundered — arid 
•>—it  was  done.  And  such  was  the  ferocious  exaltation 
of  my  spirit  at  the  time,  that  I  could  have  done  the  same 
deed,  though  the  day  of  judgment  had  been  at  hand,  O, 
aunt!  I  feel  horribly  about  the  forehead, — very  hot  and 
scorching — and  my  skin  peals  off,  lately,  with  the  fever 
of  my  spirit. 

Indeed — I  thought  the  earth  did  quake — and — and — 
yes  aunt,  I  did  see,  as  plainly  as  I  ever  saw  any  thing  in 
this  life,  the  broad  paved-aisle,  and  the  altar,  that  you 
know  I  dreamt  of; — they  opened  in  the  darkness — and 
I  saw  smoke  issuing  from  them;  I  heard  musick;  and  then 
I  saw  my  mother  too,  as  plainly  as  I  see  this  hand — sit- 
ting there,  and  looking  at  the  poor  little  creature. 

Yet  I  did  it.  Yea — and  I  should  have  done  it,  upon  the 
very  altar — though  it  shook,  at  the  time,  with  the  divini- 
ty.— Have  you  any  notion  of  the  truth?  No — you  have 
not — you  cannot  have.  What?  that  the  haughty  Jane — 

your  pride,  your  idol — that  she  should  come  to — 

O,  no,  it  were  easier  to  believe  her  a  murderess. — Aunt, 


200  AANDOLM. 

come,  come!  to  me.  Some  incurable  malady  is  upon  me,  I 
know  not  what  it  is; — but,  if  you  disappoint  me  again,  I 
shall  die.  I  am  sure  of  it.  Why  did  you  not  come  be- 
fore? You  might  have  saved- No,  1  cannot  tell  you 

what. — But  come; — in  mercy,  come.  What  have  I 
written?  I  know  not;  my  brain  is  in  a  whirl — and  I  am 
trying  to  read  it — but  I  cannot.  1  begin  to  pity  poor  Ju- 
liet—But  if  I  have  told  anything — you  must  not  believe 
it— 1  am  in  such  spirits! — O,  aunt,  it  is  the  pleasantest 

tiling  in  the  world  to  feel  so  full  of  festivity no,  no, 

it  is  a  lie — it  is  not — it  is  frightful.  What  is  the  matter 
with  me?  Perhaps  you  can  tell  by  the  writing. — Is  it 
not  strangely  disordered? 

JANE. 

P.  S. — That  Sarah' — T  can  scarcely  speak,  for  joy — 
her  threatening  has  come  to  his  ears.     Wo  to  her! 
I  shall  be  revenged. 


ANSWER. 

Why  did  I  disappoint  you? — oh,  Jane!  Jane! — what 
have  you  done!     I  was  sick  with  horrour  and  affright. — 

"What  have  you  done! That  terrible  letter .     It 

threw  me  into  convulsions.     I  am  but  just  alive. Yet 

the  carriage  is  already  at  the  door. — I  will  never,  never, 
leave  you  again.  This  will  be  delivered  into  your  hands, 
by  William.  I  have  ordered  him  to  ride,  night  and  day; 
and  tell  you  that  you  shall  not  be  disappointed,  again.— 
No — I  will  sooner  come  to  you,  a  corpse, 

MATILDA. 


SARAH  TO  JOHN. 

Boston. 

I  promised  to  write  to  you  and  Juliet  again,  soon,  and 
enclose  one  of  the,  anonymous  letters.  I  would  write  in 
detail,  and  inform  you  how  I  am  pleased  with  this  hos- 
pitable, warm  hearted  people;  but,  I  am  yet  a  stranger; 


BANDOLPH.  201 

constantly  occupied  by  visiting;  a  ceremony,  conducted  in 
a  fashionable  way,  that  is  exceedingly  tiresome  to  me. — 
When  I  have  more  knowledge,  and  more  leisure  too,  I 
shall  write  to  our  beloved  Juliet;  and  tell  her  all  that  I 
know,  or  can  find  out,  concerning  the  good  yankees,  the 
sellers  of  wooden  nutmegs; — gloves,  all  of  one  hand; — 
cuckoo-clocks,  and  Hingham-ware.  So  far  as  I  have 
seen  them,  I  like  them.  The  country  looks  old,  rich, 
and  substantial;  and  the  manners,  1  should  think,  were 
remarkably  primitive.  I  speak  of  the  country  people. — 
The  buildings,  publick  and  private,  are  adapted,  admi- 
rably well;  Jirst,  for  comfort  and  utility;  and  ihtn<,  for 
show.  With  us,  and  further  to  the  south,  there  seems  to 
be  a  different  tendency.  But,  perhaps  I  am  prejudiced; 
for  you  know,  that,  where  we  have  been  generously  treat- 
ed, it  is  difficult  to  see  faults. 

"It  is  in  vain,  that  we  would  coldly  turn, 
"To  them  that  smile  on  us ." 

Byron,  I  believe; — but  I  have  no  knack  at  such  things; 
and  what  possessed  me  to  quote  poetry,  I  know  not;  and 
to  quote  Mm,  of  all  men  breathing;  him,  whom  I  so  hear- 
tily execrate  and  despise.  I  don't  know  when  I  have  been 
in  such  spirits.  Your  note,  announcing  that  Frank  had 
gone  to  New  Orleans,  has  made  my  heart  light;  but  the 
first  had  miscarried — I  have  not  received  it  yet;  let  him 
wear  the  talisman,  nevertheless;  the  tiger  may  cross  his 
path,  when  he  least  expects  it.  But  why  not  say  more? 
You  are  on  your  return,  I  suppose. — Shall  you  renew 
your  intimacy  with  Molton?  1  hope  not.  But  if  you  do, 
hunt  him  out  of  his  labyrinth.  Read  the  within,  and 
tell  me  what  you  think  of  it.  It  is  the  fifth,  that  I  have 
received.  I  already  tremble;  and,  above  all,  I  would 
have  you  ascertain  if  Molton  be  married. 

(ANONYMOUS,  TO  SARAH.) 

The  life  of  Edward  Molton  has  been  an  uninterrupted 
tissue  of  acts  like  the  following.    I  make  no  apology  for 


RANDOLPH. 

•OP    . 

*     '  *--t^       ^ 

communicating  them,  after  what  I  know  of  him,  and,  ol 
Miss  Gracie.  Bo  it  your  business  to  communicate  to 
her,  so  much  of  the  whole,  as  will  counteract  the  poison, 
that  foe  has  infused.  Do  not  mistrust  me.  I  say  nothing 
of  Molton's  talent.  I  only  say  that  there  is  but  one 
way  of  restoring  that  heart  to  soundness,  upon  which  he 
has  once  breathed.  Beware  of  him.  He  is -charged 
with  many  terrible  crimes; — with  seduction; adulte- 
ry;  murder.  For  the  truth  of  these  charges,  I  do 

not  vouch;  but  there  are  facts,  to  the  knowledge  of  which 
I  have  arrived,  which  I  submit  to  you,  in  the  following 
order,  without  comment.  Confront  him  with  them.  Will 
he  deny  them?  No — but  perhaps  he  will  obtain  your  ear. 
If  he  do — I  know  him — he  will  prevail.  You  ask  me,  if 
"I  know  Mss  Grane?"  Believe  me,  you  were  very  im- 
prudent, in  permitting  yourself  to  ask  me  any  such 
question,  particularly  in  black  and  white.  It  is  perilous; 
and  although  such  confidence  is  precious  to  me— yet, 
en  your  account,  I  intreat  you  not  to  write  to  me  again. 
What  you  have  written,  is  sacred.  It  was  rash,  I  con- 
fess, very  rash  in  you,  even  to  receive  my  notes.  But,  I 
do  not  mistake  you.  I  know  your  motive;  and  I  trust 
that  my  deportment  has  been  such,  as  to  convince  you  of 
my  discretion.  The  only  thing  that  I  blame  in  you,  is, 
your  having  acknowledged  that  you  have  received  and 
read  my  notes.  You  ought  not  to  let  me  know  this — I  am 
the  last  man  that  should  know  it.  But,  it  is  done  now,  and 
cannot  be  helped;  so,  let  me  reply  to  your  question.  Yes — 
I  did  know  Juliet  Gracie.  Nay,  more— Iloved  her.  But 
that  is  passed.  Still,  however,  I  would  preserve  hep; 
watch  over  her,  and  restore  her,— wasted  and  weary  as 
she  is,  to  happiness  and  health. 

Edward  Molton,  at  an  early  age,  manifested  the  most 
depraved  inclinations.  Before  twelve,  he  was  a  con- 
firmed liar;  drank  to  excess;  and  stole  whatever  he  could 
lay  his  hands  on.  He  lived"in  solitude.  He  was  the 
chief  pest  of  his  family,  and  the  bye- word  of  the  town. 
Among  the  transgressions  of  his  youth,  I  can  recollect 
several,  such  as  the  following.  He  has  deliberately  in- 
sulted a  lady,  at  a  large  dinner  table,  in  two  instances, 


RANDOLPH.  203 

-  <*  i  **V 

with  an  abrupt  and  brutal  cruelty,  that  can  only  be  pal- 
liated by  supposing  him  ignorant  of  the  commonest  cour- 
tesies of  life.  Nay,  he  has  presented  a  book,  to  one  of 
the  most  accomplished  and  fascinating  women,  in  our 
country,  after  violating  the  decorum  of  a  family,  by 
lending  it  to  a  youthful  and  superiour  girl,  who  return- 
ed it,  with  this  cutting  remark.  "I  have  read  it,  on 
your  recommendation. — But,  do  not  (as  he  had  promised) 
do  not  lend  it  to  your  sister.  I  have  no  fear  that  it  would 

corrupt  her,  but- ."  She  could  say  no  more.  And 

the  former  lady  returned  it,  almost  in  tears. 

After  a  rude  and  shameful  outrage  too,  upon  a  young 
girl,  a  sort  of  apprentice  wrhere  he  once  lived,  in  which, 
the  consummation  of  his  design  was  only  prevented  by 
his  inebriety,  and  the  interference  of  the  lady,  to  whose 
government  the  girl  was  subject,  he  was  a  second  time 
so  forgetful  of  all  that  gives  dignity  to  a  man,  that  it  was 
only  by  main  force,  that  she  escaped  from  his  room,  in- 
to which  she  had  been  beguiled. 

Not  long  since,  in  this  very  neighbourhood,  he  fell  ac- 
quainted with  a  reputable  married  woman,  a  mother, 
travelling  with  her  child;  and  ere  he  parted  from  her, 
which  was  at  the  end  of  a  few  hours  ride,  he  made  an 
assignation  with  her,  to  meet  her  at  the  house,  where 
she  stayed,  and  agreed  to  pass  himself  off  for  her  brother. 

On  another  occasion,  he  entered,  with  a  worthy  and 
respectable  man,  without  any  introduction,  into  a  house 
where  the  people  of  the  place,  (it  was  in  the  country,) 
were  dancing.  He  soon  singled  out  a  young  and  inter- 
esting girl.  Her  lover  was  with  her.  She  affronted 
Molton,  and  he  determined  to  be  revenged.  He  pursued 
her  to  h?r  father's;  and  while  the  man,  that  was  with 
him,  sat  down  with  a  small  company  at  cards,  he  employ- 
ed himself  in  the  work  of  ruin.  Not  a  quartevr  of  an  hour 
had  passed,  before  Molton  was  surprised  by  the  father 
himself,  in  an  unoccupied  room,  with  his  daughter. 

He  met  with  a  woman,  whom  he  had  once  loved,  after 
her  marriage  with  another,  at  noonday,  by  a  formal 
assignation;  and  the  story  is,  that  they  were  both  incon- 
ceivably distressed.  Nay,  he  once  visited  the  wife  of 


204  RANDOLPH. 

another  man,  in  the  absence  of  her  husband;  and  who, 
he  had  every  reason  to  believe,  loved  him,  at  night;  and 
she  was  known  to  arise  from  her  bed,  and  receive  him. 

He  fell  in  love,  or  at  least,  felt  a  singular  interest  in 
another  girl,  who  was  afterward  married;  and  such 
was  the  infatuation  of  that  woman,  that  she  used  to  pass 
by  his  dwelling,  continually,  after  her  marriage,  in  the 
absence  of  her  husband. 

He  was  criminally  intimate  with  a  woman,  whom  he 
introduced,  in  his  audacity,  at  the  peril  of  his  life,  not 
only  into  genteel  and  intelligent  society,  but  into  the 
house  of  his  own  mother; — or,  rather,  he  attempted  this, 
but  heaven  interfered,  and  disappointed  him. 

Nay,  I  do  know  of  his  having  successively  pursued  se- 
veral women,  for  a  long  season,  in  one  case,  for  whole 
years,  without  any  serious  design.  But,  there  was  one 
who  had  the  spirit  to  requite  him.  She  discovered  the 
blackness  of  his  heart; — and  tore  her's  away  from  it,  for- 
ever. Was  it  not  noble? — heroick?  They  were  to  have 
been  married. 

And  who  is  she,  with  whom  he  now  lives,  in  open  de- 
fiance of  public  shame  and  honour?  Perhaps  her  history 
may  be  none  of  the  whitest,  in  the  calendar  of  darkness. 
She  is  from  England. 

One  other,  and  I  have  done.  That  other  is  a  case  of 
singular  atrocity.  An  innocent  creature  put  herself  in 
his  way,  in  tears.  Her  sister  had  been  betrayed.  Mol- 
ton  counselled  her  against  the  falsehood  and  subtlety  of 
man;  and,  when  he  had  won  her  whole  confidence,  would, 
perhaps,  have  destroyed  her,  himself; — but  she  fled,  and 
is  safe. 

There  is  yet  another.  It  is  said,  that  he  ran  away,  some 
time  ago,  with  a  sweet  girl,  from  a  nunnery,  in  Canada; 
was  pursued,  and  shot,  by  the  brother,  on  the  way  to 
New- York,  where  he  fled,  like  a  dastard.  This  tale  is 
believed. 

And,  since  writing  the  above,  two  other  cases  have 
come  to  my  recollection,  which  may  avail  something  in 
your  estimate  of  the  man's  character.  He  has  been  the 
cause  of  much  jealousy  between  several  married  people; 


RANDOLPH.  305 

and,  on  one  occasion,  I  know  of  his  having  secretly  cor- 
responded, tor  some  time,  with  a  woman; — an  evidence 
of  infatuation  in  her,  surpassing  aught  that  I  have  ever 
known:  for  she  was  a  religious  woman;  the  mother  of 
several  children;  and  she  knew  his  character.  Yet,  she 
trusted  herself  to  him. 

The  last  is  a  case,  where  he  had  insinuated  himself  in- 
to a  house,  how,  it  would  be  difficult  to  tell;  for  his  man- 
ners are  not  conciliating — and  suddenly  ceased  to  go  to 
it.  Nay,  I  have  reason  to  believe,  that  he  was  formally 
requested  not  to  enter  it,  again.  What  coujd  have  been 
the  reason? 

You  will,  probably,  never  hear  from  me,  again.  I  have 
communicated  all.  That  there  are  suspicious  stories,  dif- 
ferent, and  quite  as  shocking,  of  which  the  world  has  no 
mode  of  arriving  at  the  truth,  is  true.  But,  I  believe, 
that  these  are  nearly  all  of  his  sins;— nay,  I  might  say, 
positively,  that  they  were  all,  except  some  of  a  less  seri- 
ous nature,  the  recital  of  which  I  shall  spare  you. 

Does  he  plead  passion?  No.  He  derides  the  plea. 
He  has  sinned,  and  continues  to  sin,  in  his  own  way, 
without  consulting  aught  but  his  own  heart;  and  what 
that  monitor  is,  after  such  an  uninterrupted  violation  of 
order  and  decorum,  as  I  have  exhibited  to  you,  you  may 
judge  for  yourself. 

And  now — one  word  of  advice  to  you.  You  are  very 
imprudent.  The  evidence  that  you  have  given  to  me,  is 
conclusive.  My  last  advice  is — Beware  of  Molton; — and 
watch  over  Juliet.  Only  one  thing  can  save  her— un- 
interrupted employment.  She  has  an  extraordinary 
genius; — but  she  is  undisciplined,  and  unable,  except  at 
intervals,  to  sustain  and  cherish  it,  as  it  deserves.  Let 
her  know  that  it  is  better  to  toil,  regularly ,  one  hour  a 
day,  than  to  work  one  whole  day,  in  a  week;  or  one  whole 
month,  in  a  year.  It  becomes  a  habit,  at  last; — and  she 
may  gradually  extend  the  time,  until  what  would  have 
intimidated  her,  at  first,  will  become  a  matter,  scarcely 
of  observation,  in  her  habitual  practice. 

SARAH   KA.MSAT, 


206  RANDOLPH. 

SARAH  TO  JOHN. 

I  write  to  you,  again.  I  am  terrified  to  death.  I  had 
Entirely  forgotten  the  deaf-and-dumb  man.  Yet  some- 
thing happened,  a  day  or  two  since,  which  I  was  asham- 
ed to  confess.  The  thought  appeared  so  childish.  I  was 
standing  at  a  counter — 1  felt  uneasy — I  turned,  and  there 
he  was—  O.  I  should  know  his  strange,  melancholy  eyes, 
wherever  I  met  them.  I  was  near  fainting.  When  I 
recovered,  he  had  gone.  What  a  strange  phantom  it  is, 
said  I;—  ano^  from  that  day  to  this,  I  have  started  at  the 
tread,  or  voice,  of  every  stranger  that  I  have  met.  I 
rarely  go  abroad:  and,  when  1  do,  I  see  his  manner — his 
countenance*— his  very  eyes,  it  would  appear,  at  every 
turn.  The  consequence  is.  that  1  am  sick — weary.  I  must 
leave  Boston — I  will.  It  is  frightful,  to  me,  to  be  so 
harassed.  I  feel  like  something  haunted. 

But,  as  I  was  saying — I  had  recovered — I  thought  no 
more  of  him.  But,  just  now — cousin,  it  is  not  ten  min- 
utes since  he  left  me.  I  feel  his  touch  yet.  Would  that 
he  had  spoken!  O,  with  such  eyes,  such  a  forehead — if 

he  would  only  speak,  I  am  sure  that .  No  matter. 

He  is  not  striking,  Pthought  him  remarkably  so,  at  first. 
His  physiognomy  has  nothing  remarkable;  but  the  ex- 
pression— that  it  is,  which  startled  me.  It  is  imperial. 
The  profile  is  bad— feeble,  I  think;— but,  in  front— No! 
how  should  I  think  of  describing  it?  I  only  know,  that 
he  has,  probably,  saved  my  life;  for,  in  crossing  one  of 
these  vile  slippery  streets,  here,  I  fell;  and,  at  that  in- 
stant, a  carriage  came  thundering  round  the  corner.  The 
wheel  touched  me — I  felt  it — I  almost  felt  the  weight, 
crushing  my  bones.  I  was  saved.  The  deaf-and-dumb 
creature  saved  me.  He  threw  himself,  they  say,  at  the 
head  of  the  horses,  and  turned  them  up  the  platform,  so 
critically,  that  the  fore-wheel  passed  over  my  foot,  tear- 
ing and  bruising  it  very  slightly.  Ah!  I  just  begin  to 
feel  the  pain.  But  where  is  he?  I  remember  opening 
any  eyes,  while  my  father  held  me;  and  his  countenance 
was  near  to  mine — with  a  strange  expression; — it  made 
me  shut  them  again.  He  disappeared.  Nobody  knows 


HT 


RANDOLPH.  207 

how; — and  my  father,  I  find,  looks  quite  serious.  Nay,  I 
miss  somewhat  of  his  affectionate  manner,  now,  more 
than  ever.  But  enough  of  this.  Give  the  enclosed  to 
Juliet. 

SARAH   RAMSAY. 


SARAH   TO   JULIET. 

You  have  often  wished,  dear  Juliet,  that  my  imperturb- 
able nature,  as  you  have  called  it,  might  meet  with  some- 
thing to  agitate  it.  Your  wish  is  accomplished.  I  am 
agitated,  cruelly  agitated;  not  with  the  passion  of  love, 
that  to  which  you  seemed  to  look,  with  most  assurance, 
for  the  desired  effect;  but  with  a  strange,  inexplicable  in- 
quietude— intensely  painful  and  distressing,  at  times; — 
and  yet,  so  pleasant  withal,  that  I  would  not  entirely 
forego  it. 

You  will  be  startled  when  you  know  the  fact.  I  have 
been  pursued — haunted — for  the  last  two  months,  by  a 
deaf-and-dumb  man.  Who  he  is,  or  what  is  his  object,  I 
cannot  conjecture;  but  he  is,  incessantly,  about  my  path, 
besetting  me  at  every  turn,  and  occupying  my  thought, 
and  all  my  dreaming.  At  times,  I  feel  no  little  terrour 
about  him;  and  then,  my  compassion  for  one  so  helpless  and 
heroick,for  there  is  really  something  heroick  in  his  man- 
ner, entirely  overcomes  my  terrour, — and  I  only  wish, 
while  the  tears  fall  from  my  eyes,  that  I  were  his  sister, 
or  some  friend,  and  authorized  to  administer  that  conso- 
lation, which  one  so  desolate  and  dark,  must  require. — 
He  has  just  saved  my  life.  (Here  followed  an  account  of 
the  transaction,  exactly  as  it  is  related  in  the  preceding 
letter,  as  to  the  facts;  but  the  comments  were  more  feel- 
ing and  animated.) 

I  promised  to  keep  a  sort  of  journal,  you  know;— -and 
I  was  as  good  as  my  promise,  until  I  had  been  so  dis- 
turbed, by  the  frequent  recurrence  of  this  poor  creature 
to  my  thought,  that  I  abandoned  it.  The  last  part  of  it, 
that  is  intelligible,  even  to  me,  I  find,  is  that,  which  des- 
v  -Y  v  '  ;.  u*  .iJv.ujf. 


208  RANDOLPH. 

cribes  a  visit  to  the  battle-ground,  near  the  Falls  oi 
Niagara.  I  send  it  to  you,  just  as  it  is.  It  was  written 
with  a  trembling  hand,  you  perceive;  but  a  still  more 
trembling  heart,  I  can  assure  you. 

May  14th. — Went  to  the  battle-ground,  in  company 
with  an  officer,  who  was  in  the  action,  and  under  the 
command  of  colonel  Millar.  There  is  no  hill,  such  as  I 
expected  to  see,  where  the  British  artillery  was  posted; 
and  several  material  errours,  that  my  father  had  fallen 

into,  from  reading  the  account  by  Maj. ,  were 

corrected.  After  the  Americans  had  obtained  possession 
of  the  battery,  they  never  lost  it.  The  British,  it  is 
true,  made  several  desperate  charges;  but  were  always 
unsuccessful.  The  notion  that  prevails,  generally,  is, 
that  it  was  lost  and  won,  several  times.  But,  let  me  tell 
the  whole,  as  nearly  as  I  can,  in  the  words  of  the  officer. 
He  was  young,  handsome,  and  modest;  and,  while  he  led 
us  over  the  ground,  he  pointed  out  the  particular  spot, 
where  any  transaction  of  interest  had  occurred; — showed 
us  where  //,e  had  stood — where  Millar  was,  when  he  was 
asked,  ii  he  could  ''carry  that  battery?"  and  replied,  with 
more  soldier-like  pith  than  any  Spartan  ever  did — **/'W 
try." 

"The  order  came,  to  storm  the  battery."  said  the  offi- 
cer. "I  was  in  front  of  my  company.  1  had  never  been 
closely  engaged  before: — a  few  skirmishes,  only,  had 
been  the  whole  of  my  experience.  My  feelings  were  not 
the  most  creditable  to  a  soldier.  I  could  have  turned, 
and  run,  with  a  good  heart,  had  not  all  the  eyes  of  my 
men  been  upon  me.  We  pushed  on,  at  double  quick  time. 
I  was  near  enough  to  see  the  faces  of  the  men  at  their 
gnns.  Just  at  that  moment,  1  saw  one  of  my  lads  gradu- 
ally sinking  to  the  ground,  with  a  face  so  horribly  pale 
and  ghastly,  that  I  forgot  my  own  terrour,  instantly.  I 
struck  him  with  my  sword; — it  was  like  electricity.  He 
stood  erect;  and  I  gave  immediate  orders,  in  a  loud  voice, 
to  bayonet  the  first  man  that  lagged.  The  sound  of  my 
x>wn  voice  gave  me  new  heart.  Colonel  Millar,  too,  was 
just  in  the  rear,  walking  leisurely,  backward  and  for- 
ward, with  an  enormous  quid  of  tobacco  in  his  mouth, 
which*  all  who  saw  him,  could  see.  You  would  not  easily 


- 


BANDOIFH.  209 

guess  the  effect  of  such  a  trivial  matter.  But  I  have 
known  that  kind  of  unconcern,  more  effectual,  in  giving 
life  to  the  soldiers,  than  the  sternest  and  steadiest  coun- 
tenance. It  turns  the  current  of  their  thought  from  dan- 
ger. A  stern  visage,  on  the  contrary,  teaches  them  that 
there  is  something  to  be  feared;  else,  why  such  prepara- 
tion? Nay,  I  once  saw  General  Ripley,  when  the  shot 
was  raining  in  upon  us,  address  an  officer,  near  me,  thus: 
"A  pinch  of  your  snuff,  if  you  please,  lieutenant."  Sir, 
we  could  have  stormed — I  beg  your  pardon,  madam. 
I  forgot,  then,  that  you  were  so  near.  Well,  we  reserved 
our  fire.  The  battery  opened  upon  us — but  they  fired 
over  our  heads.  We  were  about  four  hundred,  and  they 
were  many  times  as  numerous*  We  had  been  waiting, 
impatiently,  for  the  word.  It  came.  Fire!  We  took  de- 
liberate aim,  and  poured  in  our  balls,  like  hail,  upon  the 
men  at  the  pieces.  Every  shot  told.  We  saw  them  tum- 
bling about  their  guns,  in  dozens.  When  we  carried  the 
battery,  we  turned  it,  immediately,  upon  them.  We  con- 
tinued to  be  reinforced;  and  the  enemy,  we  soon  saw, 
meditated  an  attack,  in  turn.  Then  was  the  time  of  trial. 
All  about  us,  there  was  a  dead  silence.  We  could  hear 
the  heavy  roll  of  Niagara,  however;  and,  now  and  then, 
a  straggling  shot,  fired  in  the  trepidation  of  some  soldier. 
The  moon  was  bright  and  beautiful;  and  the  black  clouds 
that  were  driven  across  it,  by  a  strong  wind,  presented 
every  variety  of  shadow  and  light.  At  one  time,  in  the 
darkness,  the  enemy  had  approached  so  near,  that  we 
thought  him  a  part  of  our  troops.  It  was  about  eleven 
o'clock,  at  night." 

There,  dear  Juliet,  I  have  given  it  to  you,  nearly  in 
his  own  words. 

Ever  thine, 

SARAH. 

P.  S.--I  am  not  a  little  mortified,  dear  JuKet,  to  find 
that*  after  all,  I  have  been  in  no  kind  of  danger!  The 
carriage,  it  now  appears,  was  not  near  me.  I  have  this, 
from  my  father,  who,  I  am  afraid,  has  discovered  the 
stranger.  I  await  his  questioning,  with  anxiety.  In  your 
T 


210  RANDOLPH. 

reply,  tell  me  how  you  are  situated.  How  does  Jane  bear 
herself  toward  you?  Is  that  aunt  of  hers,  there?  If  so, 
I  do  pity  you.  Who  is  Mr.  Grenville?  What  is  he?— 
I  wait  your  opinion  of  him,  for  particular  reasons,  in  con- 
fidence. There  are  some  strange  reports  here. 

SARAH. 


JOHN   TO   SARAH. 

(Bearing  nearly  the  same  date,  with  one  from  her  to  him. 
The  letters  had  passed  each  other  on  the  road.} 

Sarah,  my  poor  brother  is  an  altered  man,  indeed.  I 
thought  that  he  had  more  fortitude — more  strength;  or, 
rather,  I  did  not  believe  that,  with  such  a  soul  as  he  has, 
he  could  ever  become  so  utterly  prostrate,  as  I  found  him. 
He  was  pale;  and  there  was  something,  in  that  paleness, 
that  frightened  me.  So  few  weeks  had  passed,  since  we 
saw  him,  so  gay  and  hearty; — and  now,  his  lips  were 
parched;  his  eyes  sunken  and  fiery;  his  form  so  emaci- 
ated. 

I  sat  down  by  him.  I  took  his  hand;  nay — why  need 
I  conceal  it — I  fell  upon  his  bosom,  and  wept.  There 
was  an  unnatural  gaiety  in  his  voice,  too,  that  went  to 
my  heart.  I  asked  him  if  he  had  received  my  letter  in 
season,  (with  a  little  money,  which  I  had  enclosed  to 
him.)  He  grasped  my  hand.  His  voice  trembled.  I  in- 
quired into  his  intentions.  They  were  to  go  to  New  Or- 
leans. I  was  constantly  with  him,  for  the  first  week;  and 
there  came  a  letter  for  him,  directed  to  my  care,  from 
Molton.  What  could  it  be?  I  thought  that  his  heart  would 
burst,  when  he  read  it.  "Accursed  slanderer!"  he  cried, 
tearing  it,  and  trampling  on  it,  like  a  madman.  I  asked 
him  the  cause  of  his  wrath — he  tried  to  tell  me,  but  he 
could  not — he  was  choking; — and  all  that  I  could  under- 
stand, was,  that  he,  Molton,  had  slandered' Juliet.  If 
that  be  true — that — it  will  be  enough.  I  shall  soon  see 


RANDOLPH. 

him,  and  I  shan't  leave  him,  till  I  know  the  truth* 
Frank's  baggage  is,  already,  on  board  the  vessel;  or,  I 
really  believe,  that  he  would  return  to  see  Molton; — but, 
from  the  look  of  his  eyes,  I  don't  think  that  there  will  be 
much  danger  of  his  wrath  cooling  in  this  voyage;  and 
his  honour,  I  find,  is  engaged  to  undertake  it.  I  am  glad 
of  it.  I  had  rather  meet  Molton,  than  let  Frank  meet 
him; — and,  unless  he  play  me  some  trick,  which  I  am 
half  inclined  to  suspect,  from  certain  mysterious  move- 
ments this  morning,  I  shall  see  Molton  long  before  he 
will.  But,  1  must  stay  here  awhile.  I  must  see  him  fair- 
ly on  board;  and  then,  I  will  return.  In  the  mean  time, 
let  your  letters  be  directed  as  usual.  There  is  a  fellow 
at  Jane's,  who  will  take  care  of  them,  for  me. 

Poor  Frank!-— there  he  is! — leaning  upon  the  table, 
with  his  hands  pressed  hard  against  his  temples.  I  must 
finish.  It  will  not  do  to  leave  him,  alone,  for  an  instant. 

Dear  Sarah,  adieu. 
Charleston,  S.  C.  JOHN. 

P.  S. — I  open  this  to  say,  that  I  have  discovered  the 
truth.  Molton  has  offered  Juliet  to  him!  Frank  is  deli- 
rious with  passion,  in  consequence*  I  know  not  what  it 
means;  but  I  will  know. 


JOHN   TO  FRANK   OMAR, 

Philadelphia,  — . 

It  may  lighten  my  brother's  heart,  to  know,  that  the 
story  which  he  has  heard  of  Molton's  baseness,  toward 
Marion,  M.  P.  is  untrue;  and  that,  to  have  felt  a  regard 
for  him,  is  not  so  terrible  a  reproach,  to  a  modest  wo- 
man, as  he  has  thought.  I  have  made  particular  in- 
quiries, and  have  been  so  fortunate,  as  to  find  the  very 
gentleman,  at  last,  who,  it  was  said,  came  so  near  being 
deceived  by  Molton.  The  facts,  as  related  by  him,  are 





RANDOLPH. 

these: — "Molton  never  loved  her,  and  never  affected  to 
love  her:  on  the  contrary,  she,  herself,  has  always  spo- 
ken of  him,  as  having  conducted  himself  in  the  most 
honourable  manner.  She  was  an  ambitious,  smart,  showy 
woman,  and  Molton  was  on  intimate  terms  with  her,  for 
years; — but,  while  I  knew  that  he  had  no  intention  of  mar- 
rying her,"  said  this  gentleman,  "because  he,  more  than 
once,  left  off  visiting  her,  on  account  of  such  a  report, 
informing  her  of  the  reason,  at  the  time — I  knew,  also, 
that  their  acquaintance  was  not  only  perfectly  innocent, 
but  discreet.     Nay,  ask  Molton  himself.     What  he  tells 
you,  you  may  depend  upon.     It  is  true,  that  I  loved  Ma- 
rion— devoutly — to  infatuation; — and,  it  is  also  true,  that 
I  became  acquainted  with  her,  through  the  means  of  Mol- 
ton; and  that,  after  we  separated,  she  was  seriously  ill, J 
and  went*  for  a  few  days,  into  the  country,  accompanied 
by  Molton.     Here,  my  knowledge  of  Marion  and  him 
terminated.   There  never  was  a  more  cruel  and  murder- 
ous slander,  than  this,  of  which  you  speak;  and,  were  it 
not  as  ridiculous,  as  cruel,  I  should  be  tempted  to  hunt  up 
the  author.    J  have  heard  it  before; — but  I  laughed  at  it. 
There  is  not  one  word  of  truth,  from  beginning  to  end, 
in  the  induction  that  has  been  so  wickedly  drawn,  from 
a  few  simple  facts.     The  lady  was  imprudent,  I  have  no 
doubt;  for  all  women  are  so,  to  a  degree,  when  in  love. 
But  she  was  innocent.     I'll  stake  my  life  on  that.     Mol- 
ton was  always  too  high  minded,  with  all  his  faults,  to 
deceive  a  friend,  so  basely.     I  was  his  friend;  and  he 
spoke  to  me  of  her  faults,  and  virtues,  without  disguise, 
Nay,  he  told  me  all  their  acquaintance.     She  deceived 
me.     She  told  me  that  he  had,  repeatedly,  offered  himself 
to  her.  I  doubted  this; — and,  when  I  told  him,  he  denied 
it  in  such  a  way,  and  with  such  evidence,  as  left  me  in 
no  kind  of  doubt.  No — the  truth  was,  that  she  liked  Mol- 
ton. I  do  not  believe  that  she  loved  him; — and,  I  believe, 
that  she  would  have  won  him,  if  she  could.    I  know  that 
she  tried  hard,"     Thus  much  for  his  story.     From  ano- 
ther quarter,  I  learn,  that  the  rest  of  the  slander  is  as 
base  a  fabrication.     Yet,  the  facts  are  nearly  Ihe  same. 
"She  did  not  die  in  childbed.     She  is  living  yet.    But 


BANDOLPH. 

her  husband  was,  probably,  induced  to  address  her,  in 
consequence  of  what  Molton  said  to  him.  Nor,  is  it  true, 
that  there  was  any  secret  cause,  for  the  interruption  of 
the  acquaintance  between  Molton  and  the  family.  It  was 
a  plain  matter  of  fact.  He  is  haughty,  bitter,  and  sar- 
castick;  and,  when  once  provoked,  difficult  to  appease. 
He  affronted  her,  deliberately;  and,  as  deliberately,  re- 
pented of  it.  The  first  cause  of  their  coolness  was  acci- 
dental; but  it  soon  became  so  serious,  that  the  father  was 
obliged  to  interfere.  Molton  has  since  been  srnsible  of 
his  unmanly  and  unworthy  conduct;  and,  f  am  sure,  if  he 
ever  have  an  opportunity,  he  will  make  an  atonement 
proportioned  to  his  transgression.  Perhaps  the  birth  of 
the  child  may  be  premature.  The  story  abroad  is  so,  I 
confess.  But  I  would  pledge  my  soul,  for  the  innocence 
of  Molton; — and  he,  I  am  sure,  would  put  his  against 
the  man,  that  would  dare  to  insinuate  aught  against  the 
purity  of  his  acquaintance  with  that  woman."  Nay,  bro- 
ther, you  may  depend  upon  this;  for  Molton,  himself,  has 
told  me,  in  plain  language,  the  whole  extent  of  her  im- 
prudence with  him.  It  amounted  only  to  a  few  tears; — 
but,  he  declares,  that  he  never  even  kissed  her,  in  his  life; 
and  I  believe  him.  "No,"  says  he,  "she  is  an  innocent 
and  wronged  creature,  so  far  as  I  know  anything  of  her; 
and  I  have  been  very  intimate  with  her,  and  for  a  long 
time."  Farewell.  I  shall  direct  this  to  Messrs.  Fairman 
and  Baits,  of  New-Orleans,  with  leave  to  forward  it,  if 
you  should  have  left  there.  Juliet  is  well.  Sarah,  I  ima- 
gine, is  somewhat  in  love! — with  a  deaf-and-dumb  man, 
too! — but  that  is  hardly  to  be  wondered  at,  where  one  is 
so  able  and  willing  to  talk  enough  for  two: — it  would  be 
no  serious  objection  to  her,  that  he  could  not  speak — nor 
*o  him,  that  he  could  not  hear!  I  shall  tell  her  so,  next. 

Dear  brother,  yours. 

sown. 


214  RANDOLPH. 

EDWARD    MOLTON   TO    GKORGE    STAFFORD. 

No,  Stafford,  I  never  liked  Byron.  He  wants  natural 
steadiness  and  grandeur.  He  is  too  full  of  affectation. — 
Nothing  is  unpremeditated,  with  him;  nothing  perma- 
ment.  His  ambition  is  affected;  his  melancholy  affected;" 
and  so  are  his  love  and  his  misanthrophy.  If  he  really 
suffered,  he  would  not  be  so  forward  to  tell  of  it. 

Men  seek  concealment  in  their  calamity,  whenever  that 
calamity  is  accompanied  with  wounded  self-love.  Not 
so  with  Byron.  Whatever  happens  to  him,  is  for  the 
publick.  His  family  distresses — the  holiness  of  his  home 
— the  sanctity  of  a  loved  one,  whose  heart  is  bruised  and 
sore,  with  his  unkindness,  in  her  retirement,  are  all  ex- 
hibited as  so  many  spectacles.  His  passions,  and  thoughts, 
are  nothing  more  to  him,  than  a  kind  of  ware,  with  which  he 
supplies  the  market — a  theatrical  company,  which  he  lets 
out  to  the  mob,  for  tragedy  or  comedy,  prose  or  verse. 
To-day  the  publick  appetite  is  for  the  moody  and  myste- 
rious. Byron  profits  by  it.  He  marshals  a  score  of 
heroes,  Tall  of  the  same  family;  and  exhibits  them,  with 
such  an  air  of  reality,  and  with  so  many  of  his  own  diseased 
attributes,  that  the  world  are  willing  to  believe  that  they 
are  drawn  from  life.  Ridiculous.  Two  or  three  things 
alone  that  1  find  in  his  poetry,  are  enough  to  convince  me, 
that  Byron  is,  naturally,  a  pleasant,  harmless ,  inoffen- 
sive sort  of  fellow,  with  no  more  gall  nor  bitterness  of 
heart,  than  many  a  man,  who  is  never  suspected  of  hav- 
ing any  at  all.  A  sort  of  notion  seems  to  prevail,  that  he 
is  blood-thirsty.  I  do  not  believe  it.  Nor  do  1  even  be- 
lieve that  he  is  really  a  brare  man.  My  reason  is  this; 
and  it  is  quite  enough  for  me.  He  has  published  a  note, 
to  his  British  Bards,  and  Scotch  Reviewers,  which  no 
brave  man  ever  would  have  published.  He  speaks  of 
having  waited  for  the  vengeance  of  whosoever  might  see 
fit  to  assail  him,  after  he  had  published  the  first  edition. 
Can  anything  be  pleasanter?  What  had  he  said  so  peril- 
ous, to  his  personal  safety?  Nothing.  But  of  whom 

was  it  said? of  a  set  of  poets — the  most  patient  of 

God's  creatures*  where  powder  and  ball  are  concerned. 


RANDOLPH. 

though  the  most  sensitive  and  unappeasable,  where  the 
paper  bullets  of  the  brain  "only,"  are  to  be  encountered. 

No — Stafford.  Byron  is  not  a  great  man; — by  this,  I 
mean,  that  he  has  riot  that  quality  which  makes  bad  men 
great,  at  times, — immobility.  Every  thing  shakes  him; 
every  thing  disturbs  him.  That  he  is  a  great  poet,  I  do 
not  deny.  But  while  I  admit  that,  in  a  part  of  his  labour 
he  has  never  been  excelled,  yet  I  will  maintain  that  no 
man  has  written  a  greater  proportion  of  abominable 
trash. 

The  fashion  will  soon  have  gone  by,  as  it  was  with 
Walter  Scott's  poems,  and  will  be  with  the  novels  that 
are  attributed  to  him,  now.  But  this  must  not  be  known. 
People  forget  the  past,  and  regard  the  present,  as  an  ex- 
ception to  the  vicissitude  of  fashion.  If  I  should  say, 
therefore,  that  the  time  is  close  at  hand,  when  Byron's 
poems,  and  the  Scotch  novels,  will  be  found  on  the  same 
shelf  with  Scott's  poems,  covered  with  dust;  a  drug  in 
Booksellers  shops;  and  a  part,  too  sacred  to  be  touched, 
of  the  library — I  should  be  laughed  at.  Yet,  it  will  be 
so.  The  fashion  is  passing  away.  The  measure  and 
manner  of  Byron,  is  worn  out;  and  the  novel  writer  is 
exhausted.  I  can  remember,  when  it  was  little  else  than 
blasphemy  to  utter  aught,  against  the  poems  of  Walter 
Scott; — I  can  remember  when  they  were  found  upon  eve- 
ry table,  every  toilet;  when  they  were  cited  on  all  occa- 
sions; and  his  songs  were  to  be  heard,  at  every  turn. 
Then  it  would  have  been  thought  madness  to  predict, 
what  has  since  happened.  Then,  there  was  no  such  poet- 
ry, as  Walter  Scott's  poetry;  no  such  poet  as  Walter 
Scott.  The  Edinburgh  Reviewers  ranked  him  with 
Homer! — and  Lord  Byron  swore  that  his  rhymes  should 
live,  when  England  was  no  more! — How  is  it  now?  No 
bookseller  is  willing  to  have  them  upon  his  shelves.-— 
They  are  seen  upon  no  table — no  toilet;-— and  nobody 
pretends  now,  that  Walter  Scott  was  ever  anything  more 
than  a  pleasant,  fiery  sort  of  a  rhymer;  who,  after  draw- 
ing two  or  three  strong  characters,  kept  the  same,  con- 
tinually before  the  publick,  in  different  dresses,  and  un* 
der  different  names,  until  they,  simple  souls,  without 


£16  JIANDOLPH, 

suspecting  the  cause,  grew  tired  of  him,  and  his  company, 
and  come  to  their  senses.  The  true  reason  was,  that, 
in  his  new  works,  there  was  nothing  new; — nothing  in 
character,  measure,  image,  and  little  in  incident.  Had 
the  name  heen  unchanged,  the  whole  might  have  passed 
for  one  story.  Bating  a  catastrophe,  now  and  then,  they 
had  more  connexion  than  the  cantos  of  Childe  Harold;  and, 
finally  it  has  come  to  this,  that,  of  all  his  poems,  that 
which  first  made  him  popular,  the  Lady  of  the  Lake,  is 
the  only  one  that  is  ever  spoken  of  now,  with  complacen- 
cy. 

Will  this  he  the  fate  of  the  novels?  Undouhtedly — 
Though  1  do  not  believe,  that  Walter  Scott  is  the  author, 
for  they  are  full  of  strength  and  destitute  of  ornament; 
yet  I  believe  that  they  will  share  the  fate  of  the  poems, 
and  that  Byron's  labour  will  go  with  them.  Nay — is  it 
not  so  now?  Has  not  his  lordship  discovered  the  fact; 
and  adopted  another  manner,  entirely  contradictory  to 

his  old,  in  that  Don  Juan,  which  you  have  sent  me? 

By  the  way,  I  should  have  written  to  you,  on  the  subject  of 
that  poem,  when  I  first  received  it,  but  I  was  constantly 
travelling.  Yet,  I  shall  endeavour  to  say  a  word  or  two 
here,  before  we  part. 

But  are  there  not  other  reasons,  separate  from  the 
fickleness  of  publick  opinion,  which  may  lead  to  this  re- 
sult? I  think  that  there  are.  They  have  been  much 
too  popular,  and  too  suddenly  and  vehemently  popular. 
Such  things,  no  matter  what  their  merit  is,  cannot  last. 
Besides,  after  admitting  the  merit  of  the  writer,  thedra- 
matick  distinctness  of  his  characters;  for,  after  all,  that  is 
his  chief,  if  not  his  only  merit,  for  there  is  nothing  rer 
markable  in  his  style; — there  are  so  many  drawbacks, 
so  much  trash — so  many  chapters  of  tiresome  pedantry — 
horology — law — heraldry — history— ^and  stuff,  relative 
to  individuals,  that  can  be  interesting  only  to  those  who 
know  the  parties9  that  I  should  not  fear  to  utter  the  pre- 
diction, solely  on  that  ground.  But  a  great  and  conspi- 
cuous fault  is  this;  that  all  his  leading  characters  are 
the  same.  He  seems  to  have  no  conception  of  mind,  dis- 
tinct from  the  body.  With  him,  the  same  body  has  always. 


RANDOLPH.  217 

the  same  soul.  Recall  for  a  moment  some  of  them,  and 
point  out  to  me  where  the  real  difference  is.  It  is  on- 
ly in  a  greater  or  less  degree  of  vulgarity — and  that,  of- 
tener  in  the  dress  and  situation,  than  in  the  language; 
for  his  low-born  often  talk  better  than  the  high-born. — 
In  every  tale,  there  is  a  deformed  man; — with  long  arms 

and  prodigious   personal  strength: there    is    Dirk 

Hatterick,  Ashley  Osbaldeston— Rob  Roy— the  little 
Black  Dwarf — and  the  great  Black  Dwrarf,  for  example, 
all  with  the  devil  in  their  hearts. — And  here  1  cannot 
help  making  a  remark  that  has  long  had  weight  with 
me. — However  it  may  be  with  Walter  Scott,  who  i  am 
told  is  lame,  I  was  sure,  the  moment  that  I  saw  Byron, 
(and  I  did  not  know  that  he  was  clubfooted,  till  then) 
that  that  was  the  chief  cause  of  his  bitterness  and  hostili- 
ty to  men.  The  mind  accustoms  itself  to  regard  the 
body  of  a  man,  like  his  countenance,  as  in  character 
with  his  spirit.  There  is  the  crook  backed  "tyrant"  of 
Shakspeare,  whom  by  the  way,  I  suppose  you  know  to  have 
been  a  "marvellous  proper  man,"  and  no  more  crook- 
backed  than  I  am.  Such  men,  like  the  diminutive  and 
weak,  cannot  be  magnanimous.  What  would  be  for- 
bearance in  the  strong  and  valiant,  would  be,  in  them, 
but  pusillanimity.  They  are  viewed  with  an  evil  eye.— 
Women  avoid  them—and  fools,  with  better  faces  and 
feet,  get  ahead  of  them.  The  con«p.qnpnre  is,  that  they 
become  dark,  unforgiving,  and  terrible; — their  hearts 
secrete  a  continual  poison; — what  is  aliment  to  others, 
the  smile  of  beauty,  the  movement  and  grace  of  fashion- 
able life — is  bitterness  and  death  to  them. — Love  and  wo- 
men are  to  them  a  perpetual  taunt.  They  cannot  be 
loved — they  know  that; — if  they  have  any  ambition,  they 
aim  to  be  feared,  as  the  next  best  thing,  accessible  to 
them. 

But  I  am  wandering  again.  Let  us  return.  There 
is  also  a  series  of  mad  women,  you  know,  running 
through  the  whole  set  of  these  novels — Meg  Merillics$ 
Madge  Wildfire:  Ulrica;  Edith;  Helen  McGregor;  Nor- 
na  of  the  Fitful-Head;  and  one  or  two  others,  whom  i  can- 
not recollect.  And,  after  deducting  these  two  sets  of 


218  RANDOLPH. 

dwarfs  and  mad  women,  what  have  we  like  a  character  left; 
— nothing  but  what  is  common  to  many  novels,  if  we  ex- 
cept Claverhouse,  which  is  only  a  sketch;  Rebecca;  Min- 
na; and  Di  Vernon;  and  the  Waverly  Heroine  (who 
are  all  one)  and  the  Knight  Templar. — The  others  are 
paltry.  And  1  do  say  that  we  shall  see  the  time,  and 
soon  too,  when  few  persons  will  have  the  patience  to 
read  through  some  ot  them,  which  are  now  thought  the 
most  of — as  Waverly,  for  instance.  Can  any  thing  be 
more  tiresome  than  the  first  one  or  two  hundred  pages 
of  Waverly — excepting  some  part  of  the  latter?  I  can 
remember  when  it  first  appeared.  I  read  it  with  great 
difficulty.  It  was  the  most  irksome  thing  to  me,  that  I 
had  ever  met  with — such  was  the  general  sentiment,  too. 
But  the  Scotch  Reviewers  pronounced  it  a  miracle;  and 
we,  in  our  humility,  echoed  the  edict.  They,  too,  have 
declared  that  "Old  Mortality"  and  "Waverly"  are  the 
best  of  the  collection.  We  have  been  fools  enough  to  be- 
lieve them.  And  yet,  Stafford,  to  an  Englishman,  or  an 
American,  they  are  the  most  tiresome;  and,  for  the  very 
reason  that  they  are  the  most  grateful  to  a  Scot — their 
extreme  particularity  and  locality.  No  wonder  that  a 
Scot  finds  entertainment  in  the  barbarous  gibberish  of  the 
natives;  but  must  we,  in  spite  of  our  teeth,  be  pleased 
too,  with  what  is  unintelligible  to  us?  1  hope  not.  No 
-—the  fact  is  that.  thp.  heat  of  these  novels  are  those  that 
are  not  national — Guy  Mannering  is  the  best — Ivanhoe 
the  next.  They  are  stories  that  men  relish,  who  never 
heard  of  Scotland,  and  never  wish  to  hear  of  it.  The  char- 
acters are  not  individuals — but  species: — the  language  is 
not  provincial,  but  universal.  But  the  epidemick 
for  Scotch  poetry — cloaks — ribbands — novels — criti- 
cism— science — and  musick,  is  rapidly  passing  off. — 
We  begin  to  be  only  rationally  disquieted  by  it. 

But — if  I  am  to  say  anything  of  Don  Juan,  1  must  do 
it  soon;  my  paper  is  nearly  out.  My  first  notion  is,  that 
at  is  merely  a  piece  of  pleasantry  in  Lord  Byron;  and  that 
the  world  have  sadly  mistaken  him,  in  supposing  that  he 
had  anv  design,  good  or  ban,  in  sending  it  abroad.  That  it 
is  profligate,  I  admit; — but,  is  it  more  so,  than  Shak 


BAIfDOLFH. 

speare? — his  Romeo  and  Juliet — nay — even  his  Lear 
— or  is  it  half  so  coarse  and  brutal  as  his  Othello?  Why 
even  now,  after  the  pruning  of  a  whole  century — a  de- 
cent woman  can  hardly  sit  it  out,  without  blushing  to  the 
very  heart.  Nay — there  is  the  whole  school  ofBE\T- 
MONT  and  FLETCHER — Madam  CENTLTVRE; — and  even 
that  most  genteel  piece  of  obscenity,  that  was  ever  tole- 
rated upon  any  stage,  the  SCHOOL,  FOR  SCAIVDIL— the 
greatest  outrage  upon  decency  that  I  know;  — and  all  the 
novels  of  Smollet  and  Fielding — are  they  not  unspeak- 
ably more  coarse  and  shamefu,!?  They  are.  But  do 
not  suppose  that  I  mean  to  justify  or  plead  for  Byron. — 
No.  But  I  mean  to  say  that,  while  the  blasphemy,  and 
detestable  licentiousness  of  his  poems  are  complained  of — 
it  would  be  more  decent  to  complain  of  it,  a  little  more 
temperately;  and  after  reading  a  little  in  Milton  and 
Shakspeare.  Treat  it  as  it  is — sneer  at  it,  as  the  pas- 
time of  a  wicked,  dissolute  man,  worth  reading,  on  account 
of  its  vivacity;  but  not  to  be  dreaded,  as  it  is,  like  death 
and  rottenness,  to  the  human  heart.  There,  your  re- 
viewers were  foolish; — but  they  have  set  the  fashion,  and 
we  have  followed  it.  They  have  called  it  the  ne  plus  ul- 
tra of  genius  and  wickedness;  and  we  have  repeated  it. 
The  opinion  is  false.  It  is  no  such  wonderful  thing, — 
except  for  its  eccentricity,  as  coming  from  the  misan- 
thrope. You  see  with  what  facility  it  has  been  imitated. 
There  are  parts  in  both  of  the  works  that  I  sent  you,  so 
like  the  best  part  of  Juan,  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  de- 
tect the  counterfeit.  Nay,  nothing  is  easier; — and  the 
ridiculous  doctrine  of  association,  I  take  itr  was  first 
gravely  followed  in  Byron's  Childe  Harold.  There,  he 
was  forever  wandering.  And  it  is  my  serious  opinion, 
that,  having  become  sensible,  that  it  was  easy  to  make 
that  habit,  and  consequently,  the  writer,  ridiculous,  he 
tried  his  hand  at  Beppo,  by  way  of  anticipating  such  ri- 
dicule. M.  G.  Lewis  did  the  same  thing,  you  know, 
with  his  Giles  lollop.  Don  Juan,  therefore,  is  only  a 
parody  upon  Childe  Harold,  by  the  author  himself. — 
And  what  is  this  association?  That  which  keeps  a  man 
continually  turning.  The  author  tliinks  of  a  horse— that 


220  RANDOLPH. 

reminds  him  of  Bucephalus — that,  of  a  shadow — that,  of 
the  moon — that,  of  lunaticks — that,  of  mad  Lee — that,  of 
poor  Swift—  that,  of  racing — that,  of  the  Olympian 
games — that,  of  cards — boxing — bull  fights — Elgin  mar- 
bles—gladiators— Greece — Liberty — the  Turks — Em- 
peror Alexander,  &c.  &c.  in  short,  of  every  thing,  and 
anything,  but  the  subject  in  hand.  And  that  is  associa- 
tion! I  have  now  done.  1  f  you  would  have  the  venom  of 
Don  Juan  diluted, — make  less  noise  about  it.  That  is  a 
sure  way.  At  present,  people  are  ambitious  of  trying 
the  strength  of  their  constitutions. 

Ever  yours Dear  Stafford. 

MOLTON. 


JULIET  TO  SARAH. 

Yes,  my  dear  Sarah,  it  is  time  that  I  should  forget 
myself,  for  a  while,  and  remember  those  that  are  now,  as 
I  have  been,  away  and  apart  from  their  home.  I  have 
received  all  your  letters,  I  dare  say;  for  none  are  mis* 
sing;  and,  until  your  last,  I  had  contented  myself  with 
replying  to  them,  at  second  hand,  believing  that  I  was 
acquainted  with  all.  t  was  mistaken,  I  see,  now;  and 
though  not  disposed  to  take  you  very  seriously  to  task 
in  the  matter,  yet,  I  do  think  it  a  part  of  my  duty  to  treat 
it  somewhat  so.  I  am  afraid  that  you  do  not  think 
enough  of  this  strange  correspondence.  No,  I  do  not 
express  what  I  wish;  but  1  mean  to  ask  you,  if  it  be  not 
rather  more  grave  a  matter,  than  you  are  willing  to  ac- 
knowledge, even  to  your  own  heart.  For  my  own  part,  f 
will  tell  you,  frankly,  that,  since  Mr.  John  Omar's  re- 
turn, we  have  had  a  long  conversation  about  you; 
and  I  made  no  scruple  to  keep  the  extent  of  my  know- 
ledge a  secret,  until  I  had  arrived  at  the  limit  of  his. 
He  is  naturally  unsuspicious;  and,  when  he  found  how 
completely  I  had  trickaySfiin,  with  all  my  artlessnes**  as 
you  have  been  pleased  fir  call  it,  he  really  looked  a  little 


RANDOLPH. 

angry,  and  coloured;  nay,  I  do  not  know  but  he  might 
have  said  some  spiteful  thing,  had  not  the  gentleman, 
about  whom  you  are  concerned,  been  present.  However, 
we  were  all  good  friends  again,  in  ten  minutes;  and  con- 
tinued our  chatting.  He  declares,  without  any  hesita- 
tion, that  you  are  in  love,  at  last;  but  then,  no  human 
being  can  believe  that  he  is  serious;  for  he  seems  to  have 
taken  up  the  very  character  of  extravagance,  levity,  and 
frolick,  that  his  excellent  brother  threw  off,  so  wisely, 
just  before  he  left  us.  Indeed,  1  have  been  frequently 
struck  at  these  changes.  Unlike  as  they  appear  to  be,  from 
all  that  I  am  able  to  discover,  and  every  observation  adds 
new  strength  to  my  opinion,  they  are  really  so  very  much 
alike,  as  to  he  able  to  change  characters,  completely. 
Thus  much,  and  in  this  grave  way  too,  to  prepare  you 
for  what  is  to  follow.  But  do  not  be  terrified.  I  do  not 
mean  to  carry  these  airs  much  further.  I  was  never 
made  for  a  preceptress — and,  I  find  it  not  a  little  awk- 
ward to  give  advice; — so,  what  I  do  give  now,  must  be 
charitably  taken;  or,  I  have  done  playing  Minerva. 

I  have  thought  over  your  whole  acquaintance,  with  the 
stranger,  so  far  as  it  has  been  communicated  to  me;  and 
the  result  is,  that  I  hardly  know  what  to  say.  J  cannot 
say  that  you  have  been  imprudent;  for,  if  the  poor  crea- 
ture would  follow  you,  how  could  you  help  it?  But— 

I  fear  that pardon  me,  Sar.^h,  I  declare  that  it  brings 

the  water  into  my  eyes,  to  say  it,  even  half  in  earnest — 
I  fear  that  you  have  been  imprudent,  in  some  way.  Be- 
fore I  said  this,  I  should  have  asked  you,  perhaps;  but 
would  not  the  question  itself  imply  that  I  suspected  you? 
Yet,  let  me  tell  you,  from  what  i  judge.  You  are  such 
an  altered  creature.  Your  very  hand  writing  is  disorder- 
ed; and  your  language  is  so,  too.  Now  and  then,  by 
flashes,  a  spirit  breaks  out,  that  I  never  saw  before. 
This,  again,  is  succeeded  by  words, — single  words,  and 
phrases,  which  are  really  alarming,  when  I  remember 
what  you  have  been.  They  are  mournful,  touching,  yet 
natural.  By  this,  I  do  not  mean  that  you  were  ever 
affected,  or  unnatural,  but  that  these  are  heart-felt 

U 


220  RANDOLPH. 

reminds  him  of  Bucephalus — that,  of  a  shadow — that,  of 
the  moon — that,  of  lunaticks — that,  of  mad  Lee — that,  of 
poor  Swift— that,  of  racing — that,  of  the  Olympian 
games — that,  of  cards — boxing — bull  fights — Elgin  mar- 
bles—gladiators— Greece — Liberty — the  Turks — Em- 
peror Alexander,  &c.  &c.  in  short,  of  every  thing,  and 
anything,  but  the  subject  in  hand.  And  that  is  associa- 
tion.' I  have  now  done.  If  you  would  have  the  venom  of 
Don  Juan  diluted, — make  less  noise  about  it.  That  is  a 
sure  way.  At  present,  people  are  ambitious  of  trying 
the  strength  of  their  constitutions. 

Ever  yours Dear  Stafford. 

MOI/TOX. 


JU1IET  TO  SARAH. 

Yes,  my  dear  Sarah,  it  is  time  that  I  should  forget 
myself,  for  a  while,  and  remember  those  that  are  now,  as 
I  have  been,  away  and  apart  from  their  home.  I  have 
received  all  your  letters,  I  dare  say;  for  none  are  mis* 
sing;  and,  until  your  last,  I  had  contented  myself  with 
replying  to  them,  at  second  hand,  believing  that  I  was 
acquainted  with  all.  I  was  mistaken,  I  see,  now;  and 
though  not  disposed  to  take  you  very  seriously  to  task 
in  the  matter,  yet,  I  do  think  it  a  part  of  my  duty  to  treat 
it  somewhat  so.  I  am  afraid  that  you  do  not  think 
enough  of  this  strange  correspondence.  No,  [  do  not 
express  what  I  wish;  but  1  mean  to  ask  you,  if  it  be  not 
rather  more  grave  a  matter,  than  you  are  willing  to  ac- 
knowledge, even  to  your  own  heart.  For  my  own  part,  f 
will  tell  you,  frankly,  that,  since  Mr.  John  Omar's  re- 
turn, we  have  had  a  long  conversation  about  you; 
and  I  made  no  scruple  to  keep  the  extent  of  my  know- 
ledge a  secret,  until  I  had  arrived  at  the  limit  of  his. 
He  is  naturally  unsuspicious;  and,  when  he  found  how 
completely  I  had  trickie^ftm,  with  all  my  arttessnesn*  as 
you  have  been  pleased  to  call  it,  he  realty  looked  a  little 


RANDOLPH, 

angry,  and  coloured;  nay,  I  do  not  know  but  he  might 
have  said  some  spiteful  thing,  had  not  the  gentleman, 
about  whom  you  are  concerned,  been  present.  However, 
we  were  all  good  friends  again,  in  ten  minutes;  and  con- 
tinued our  chatting.  He  declares,  without  any  hesita- 
tion, that  you  are  in  love,  at  last;  but  then,  no  human 
being  can  believe  that  he  is  serious;  for  he  seems  to  have 
taken  up  the  very  character  of  extravagance,  levity,  and 
frolick,  that  his  excellent  brother  threw  off,  so  wisely, 
just  before  he  left  us.  Indeed,  1  have  been  frequently 
struck  at  these  changes.  Unlike  as  they  appear  to  be,  from 
all  that  I  am  able  to  discover,  and  every  observation  adds 
new  strengtli  to  my  opinion,  they  are  really  so  very  much 
alike,  as  to  be  able  to  change  characters,  completely. 
Thus  much,  and  in  this  grave  way  too,  to  prepare  you 
for  what  is  to  follow.  But  do  not  be  terrified.  I  do  not 
mean  to  carry  these  airs  much  further.  I  was  never 
made  for  a  preceptress — and,  I  find  it  not  a  little  awk- 
ward to  give  advice; — so,  what  I  do  give  now,  must  be 
charitably  taken;  or,  I  have  done  playing  Minerva. 

I  have  thought  over  your  whole  acquaintance,  with  the 
stranger,  so  far  as  it  has  been  communicated  to  me;  and 
the  result  is,  that  I  hardly  know  what  to  say.  I  cannot 
say  that  you  have  been  imprudent;  for,  if  the  poor  crea- 
ture would  follow  you,  how  could  you  help  it?  But — 

I  fear  that pardon  me,  Sarah,  I  declare  that  it  brings 

the  water  into  my  eyes,  to  say  it.  even  half  in  earnest — 
I  fear  that  you  have  been  imprudent,  in  some  way.  Be- 
fore I  said  this,  I  should  have  asked  you,  perhaps;  but 
would  not  the  question  itself  imply  that  I  suspected  you? 
Yet,  let  me  tell  you,  from  what  i  judge.  You  are  such 
an  altered  creature.  Your  very  hand  writing  is  disorder- 
ed; and  your  language  is  so,  too.  Now  and  then,  by 
flashes,  a  spirit  breaks  out,  that  I  never  saw  before. 
This,  again,  is  succeeded  by  words, — single  words,  and 
phrases,  which  are  really  alarming,  when  I  remember 
what  you  have  been.  They  are  mournful,  touching,  yet 
natural.  By  this,  I  do  not  mean  that  you  were  ever 
affected,  or  unnatural,  but  that  these  are  heart-felt. 

U 


222  RANDOLPH. 

They  have  distressed  me,  me,  who  knew  you  so  well, 
when,  perhaps,  another,  not  so  familiar  with  your  style, 
would  observe  nothing  of  the  kind,  in  them.  But  Sarah, 
let  me  assure  you — I  can  safely  say,  that,  in  all  the  let- 
ters together,  which  you  have  written  to  me,  since  wre  left 
Philadelphia,  (and  they  fill  a  large  part,  of  a  very  large 
drawer,)  there  is  not  so  much  passion,  and  brokeimess, 
and  strange  beauty  and  fervour,  as  in  two  or  three  of 
your  last.  Yet,  you  have  experienced  many  vicissitudes; 
and  though  there  was  once,  a  singular  abruptness — a 
masculine  vigour,  (have  you  forgotten  that?J  in  your 
style;  yet,  it  wore  off,  and  you  were  remarkable  for  se- 
renity, until  of  late,  when  you  have  returned,  all  at  once,  to 
it.  Passion  is  always  abrupt; — so  is  strong  emotion.  In- 
deed, you  had  become  so  sober,  at  one  time,  and  so  se- 
vere, that  I  almost  trembled  to  write  to  you.  But  now; 
— how  is  it,  now? — Ah,  Sarah — you  have  a  woman's 
heart,  after  all!  and  1  can  prattle  with  you  again,  as 
freely  as  ever. 

But — "a  deaf -and  dumb  man."  what  am  I  to  think  of 
you?  That  you  are  interested  in  him?  Yes — that  you 
love  him?  JV*o. — Take  care,  Sarah;  you  are  too  confi- 
dent of  your  own  strength.  You  are  daring,  too. — If 
you  love — deafness,  dumbness,  blindness,  would  hardly 
be  a  fatal  objection  to  you.  Consider  of  this  well.  The 
advice  had  better  be  months  too  early,  than  one  moment 
too  late.  If  I  know  any  thing  of  symptoms,  yours  arc 

sufficiently  decided;  and  my  opinion  is That  you  are 

critelly  deceiving  yourself.  I  may  be  wrong,  but  such  is 
my  belief.  If  you  thought  that  you  felt  any  tenderness 
for  the  poor  creature,  you  would  tremble  to  speak  of  him. 
You  would  be  ashamed,  and  terrified.  You  would  stifle 
the  thought,  immediately,  at  the  risk  of  suffocation;  for 
in  her  sober  senses,  any  rational  woman  would  do  this, 
as  a  matter  of  religious  duty.  I  forbear  to  urge  any 
argument  on  this  point.  If  argument  be  necessary — it 
is  already  too  late.  No,  my  dear,  dear  Sarah,  your  dan- 
ger, I  am  sure,  lies  in  your  self  confidence.  You  arc 
"cruelly  agitated/'  without  suspecting  the  cause.  The 
deaf-and-dumb  man  is  the  cause.  Your  proud  heart  is 


UANDOLPH.  223 

the  cause.  I  hope  that  I  am  mistaken; — but,  0,  Sarah, 
your  letters;  such,  from  such  a  woman  as  you,  now  that 
I  see  them  all,  and  know  the  whole,  do  alarm  me in- 
expressibly. 

That  a  girl,  who  has  scarcely  read  a  dozen  novels  in 
her  life;  whom  I  have  seen  laughing  over  some  of  the  most 
pathetick,  and  sentimental  scenes  of  the  drama; — one,  on 
whom  all  poetry  that  tells  of  "love,  still  love,"  operated, 
only  tq  make  her  beautiful  lips  curl,  in  scorn — that  she 
should  be  so  at  the  mercy,  of  one  or  two  whimsical  adven- 
tures, as  to  believe but,  before  I  advance  another 

step,  Sarah,  let  me  beg  of  you,  to  answer  me — do  I  know 
all — is  there  nothing  untold; — nothing— I  ask  you,  seri- 
ously;— and  I  will  tell  you,  why.  It  appears  to  me  so 
utterly  improbable  that  Sarah  Ramsay  should  be  trou- 
bled in  this  way,  merely  by  the  circumstance  of  having 
been  once  in  a  grave-yard,  with  a  deaf-and-dumb  man; 
by  having  seen  him,  at  glimpses,  and  doubtfully,  two 
or  three  times;  and,  having  been  assisted  in  a  trying  mo- 
ment, by  the  same  person,  even  were  that  assistance  as 
critically  rendered,  as  she  at  first  supposed. — Nay,  this 
seems  so  impossible,  I  might  say,  that  I  am  driven  to  the 
belief  that  there  is  something  untold.  Yes — there  is. — 
Sarah,  my  dearest  friend!  my  sister!  my  dear  Sarah!  I 
implore  you  to  tell  me.  It  will  ease  your  own  heart. — 
But,  if  it  may  be — for  there  are  some  things;  some,  that 
a  woman  will  no*;  tell  to  her  own  heart;  some,  that  she 
should  not.- -If  this  be  one  of  them — it  is  enough.  I  am 
satisfied,  without  wringing  the  confidence,  like  blood, 
from  your  poor  heart.  Yes — satisfied;  for  this  letter,  will 
do  all  that  such  confidence  could.  It  will  awaken  you, 
dear  Sarah,  to  a  sense  of  your  danger.  Nay,  it  were  bet- 
ter perhaps,  that  I  should  not  know  more,  whatever  there 
may  be  to  tell.  We  are  sadly  unwilling  to  relinquish 
such  things.  I  have  found  it  so; — and  the  heart  of  wo- 
man is  always  young,  tender,  and  mute,  till  that  feeling 
of  shame  is  gone,  But  then,  when  she  has  once  learnt 
to  talk  of  the  forbidden  thing;  once  taught  her  lips  to 
pronounce  the  forbidden  name — once  learnt  to  hear  her 
own  voice  discourse  upon  the  theme  of  treachery,  she 


224  RANDOLPH. 

becomes,  like  the  true  coward,  preternaturally  brave. — 
Thus,  it  is  said,  that  women  never  stop  halfway  with 
crime  or  virtue; — and  thus  1  am  sure,  they  that  have  been 
under  any  constraint,  become  imprudent,  when  that  is  re- 
moved. That  feeling  of  shame,  Sarah,  has  been  an  un- 
reasonable restraint  to  you.  Even  if  you  have  felt  ten- 
derness, you  have  never  dared  to  show  it.  The  fear  of 
ridicule  appalled  you.  It  is  not  wonderful;  ridicule  has 
shaken  stouter  minds  than  women  ever  ought  to  have.— 
I  conld  never  love  her,  whom  it  would  not  disturb.  It 
may  be  better,  therefore,  that  we  should  not  speak  at  all 
on  this  subject,  again; — no  matter  whether  it  be,  at  pre- 
sent, a  trifle,  or  not.  Because,  unless  we  agree  to  this, 
I  should  expect  you  to  laugh  at  me,  if  it  were  a  trifle; 
and  should  conclude  of  course,  if  you  did  not,  that  it  was 
serious. — Otherwise,  I  may  live  to  hear  the  insensible 
Sarah,  muttering  a  sweet  formal  incantation  aloud,  to 
the  blind  boy;  invoking  him,  by  some  name — which,  but 
to  have  heard  pronounced  by  another,  once,  would  have 
been  death  to  the  poor  trembler. — There,  my  dear  Sarah; 
have  I  not  played  my  part  mighty  well?  I  think  that  I 
have;  and  I  am  sure  that  you  will  think  me  fairly  quit 
for  some  of  your  ancient  lecturing,  on  similar  subjects, 
when  I  wanted  a  guardian,  dear,  more  than  you  ever 
will. 

And  now,  let  me  take  a  more  natural  tone.  I  should 
be  really  glad  to  hear,  that  my  beloved  Sarah,  whom  I 
know  better  than  they  that  think  her  cold  and  insensi- 
ble, had  some  truly  romantick,  high-hearted  fellow7  for  a 
husband— not  for  a  lover — tLe  romance  of  a  lover  is  too 
often  sickening  and  artificial;  but,  when  a  husband,  a 
sensible  husband  is  romantick,  the  character  is  respecta- 
ble; and  the  deep,  thrilling,  passionate  beauty  of  ro- 
mance is  never  so  well  set  off.  as  by  dignity  and  wisdom. 
To  such  a  man,  would  I  fain  see  my  Sarah  wedded.  1 
should  be  happy,  then; — or,  if  that  be  too  much,  for  we 
are  seldom  fiappy  here,  1  believe;  and  it  is  better  for  us, 
that  we  should  not  be,  I  should  be  less  unhappy  than  I 
have  been.  Yet  that  is  saying  little. —  Supply  the  defi- 
ciency yourself,  dear  Sarah;  and  believe,  as  I  do,  that  it 


RANDOLPH. 

is  better  for  us,  these  trials  and  disappointments,  this 
weltering  of  the  heart  at  times;  or,  they  wean  us  from  un- 
substantial things.  And  why  should  we  complain  ? — • 
surely  not,  that  we  have  found  the  truth  at  last! — Do  we 
complain  that  we  are  awakened  from  a  delirious  slumber? 
Would  we  be  deceived,  forever? — lie,  forever  and  ever, 
dreaming  of  imaginary  virtue,  in  imaginary  beings?— 
No,  Sarah; — and,  instead  of  sorrowing  that  the  delusion 
has  passed;  and  that  the  wicked  are  no  longer  seen  as  they 
were  wont  to  be,  on  beauty  and  majesty,  we  ought  to  re- 
joice. And  so  we  should,  were  it  not  for  our  self  love.— 
We  cannot  bear  to  confess  that  we  have  been  duped — 
cheated,  so  miserably,  as  we  sometimes  are,  into  enthu- 
siasm for  the  wicked  and but  whither  am  I  wander- 
ing?  Sarah — I  have  given  you  a  practical  illustra- 
tion, of  what  I  cautioned  you  against,  in  the  last  page; 
and  I  would  tear  this  out,  with  a  blush,  and  a  few  tears 
perhaps,  at  mine  own  weakness,  were  I  not  more  asham- 
ed of  such  a  weakness,  at  such  a  time.  Perhaps  howev- 
er, with  me,  it  is  a  symptom  of  strength,  rather  than 
passion,  'that  I  am  able  to  support  any  allusion  to  this 
painful  subject.  There  was  a  time,  when  1  could  not; — 
nay,  it  is  not  long,  since  the  most  delicate  touch  would 
have  taken  my  breath  away.  I  can  think  of  it  all,  now, 
more  steadily;  my  feelings  are  strangely  altered;  ami  I 
cannot  readily  believe  that  my  heart  is  already  so  sound 
as  it  appears; — I  choose  rather  to  believe  that  the  wound 
is  festering  yet; — that  "the  living  stream  lies  quick  be- 
low." While  I  believe  this,  I  shall  be  more  safe.  It  is 
dangerous  reviving  certain  associations.  I  have  experi- 
enced that.  It  is  like  retreading  on  crushed  flowers  with 
our  naked  feet.  We  may  affect  to  go  there,  with  in- 
difference; we  may  know  that  there  is  no  fragrance,  no 
beauty  left;  but  the  very  earth  is  aromatick,  impregnate 
with  their  essence.  The  odour  and  oil  follow  us— haunt 
us — even  in  our  sleep.  This  looks  well.  When  people 
can  talk  so,  there  is,  in  general,  little  to  be  feared;  but  I 
have  learnt  caution — and  this,  I  hope,  is  for  the  last 
time  with  me.  And  as  for  yotf,  Sarah,  the  edict  against 
you,  is  in  full  force.  You  are  not  to  allude  to  the  past. 


226  UANDOLPH. 

And  now,  let  me  reply  to  your  kind  questioning.  It 
is  very  true,  dear  Sarah,  that  I  am  not  so  happily  situated 
as  I  could  wish;  but  why  should  I  disquiet  you?  You 
cannot  relieve  me;  and  we  are  too  far  apart,  for  such  safe 
correspondence,  as  would  justify  me  in  dealing  very  plain- 
ly. Beside,  1  have  lost  a  part  of  my  sensibility,  by  re- 
covering my  health.  I  feel  more  serious,  and  am  told 
that  my  manners  are  so.  Yet,  I  do  not  think  that  there 
is  any  affectation  of  solemnity  about  me; — perhaps  there 
may  be,  of  cheerfulness,  sometimes;  for,  when  my  heart 
has  been  right  heavy,  on  some  foolish  account  or  other, 
I  have  tried  to  avoid  alike,  the  appearance  of  melancholy 
or  dejection,  which  might  be  mistaken  for  pensiveness, 
or  sentimentality;  and  that  of  great  spirits,  which  all  wo- 
men are  apt  enough  to  assume,  whenever  their  hearts  are 
touched  by  disappointment.  Do  I  write  as  I  used  to?  It 
appears  to  me  that  I  do  not.  I  think  that  I  am  getting 
more  into  your  manner,  your  old  manner,  I  mean;  for 
your  new  one  is  quite  a  novelty! — there's  no  denying  that. 

Of  one  thing,  I  can  truly  assure  you.  It  is  this.  I 
never  knew  what  were  the  consolations,  or  what  was  the 
vitality  of  religion,  till  death  had  been  brought  home  to 
me.  You  will  rejoice  with  me,  that  this  knowledge  has 
boen  purchased  so  cheaply.  I  begin  to  think  many  things 
less  valuable;  and  to  look  upon  many  others  with  differ- 
ent eyes,  than  I  did.  Perhaps  there  is  a  certain  evil 
pride — as  well  as  some  respect  for  religion,  at  the  bottom 
of  this.  If  you  think  so,  aid  me  to  detect  it. 

Yes,  Miss  Matilda  is  here,  and  is  much  kinder  to  me, 
than  before.  Jane,  alas,  has  had  her  trial,  too.  We 
have  seen  but  little  of  her,  lately.  So  many  deaths  in  the 
family,  I  fear,  have  broken  her  spirits.  Her  manner  is 
not  very  cordial;  and  she  is  very  thin;  but  I  am  sure  that 
her  heart,  poor  girl,  is  kinder  than  it  appears;  and  when 
we  recollect  how  mistaken  has  been  her  education;  how 
da  zz  ling '  y  beautiful  she  has  been;  and  then  look  at  her  now, 
so  wasted  and  pale,  from  confinement  and  real  inability 
to  bring  her  powerful  mind  into  action,  without  the  ex- 
citement of  admiration,  perpetually  and  pullickly  admin- 
istered, it  is  not  wonderful  that  she  is  somewhat  less  kind, 


BANDOLPH.  227 

than  formerly.  But  Jane  is  a  noble  girl,  after  all.  I 
know  of  many  a  sick  heart  that  she  hath  comforted;  and 
were  it  not  that  her  virtues  are  too  stern  and  masculine, 
she  would  be  an  example  of  discretion  for  the  age. 

Of  Mr.  Greaville,  I  cannot  permit  myself  to  say 
much,  because  I  have  not  known  him  long.  Some  years 
ago,  we  met;  and  I  took  up  an  opinion  against  him,  which, 
like  some  others,  I  have  had  good  reason  to  change. — 
He  remembers  you;  and  you  may  have  heard  me  speak 
of  him.  He  is  about  thirty-eight,  I  should  judge;  but 
looks  much  younger.  His  mind  is  active  and  free,  and 
betrays  an  agreeable  general  information,  that  makes  him 
courted  a  good  deal.  I  could  not  judge,  whatever  were  my 
ability,  which  is  very  slight,  as  you  know,  of  his  depth 
or  solidity,  on  so  short  an  acquaintance;  but,  I  am  at 
present  disposed  to  think  him  an  amiable  man,  with  good 
character,  settled  habits,  a  handsome  fortune,  and,  pro- 
bably, a  warm  heart.  Are  you  disposed  for  a  bargain? 
Come,  what  say  you?  I  have  no  doubt;  nay,  I  am  sure 
that  he  is  well  fitted  to  make  any  woman  happy,  who 
may  be  ready  to  give  up  her  heart  to  him.  Only  think, 
Sarah — a  snug  fortune,  (though  that,  I  know,  is  nothing 

to  you heigho! — but  a  little  money,  after  all,  is  apt  to 

be  a  very  comfortable — no,  not,  a  little  money — that  is 
one  of  the  uncomfortable  things  of  this  life;  for,  if  it  were 
not,  I  know  not  who  would  be  more  comfortable  than 
many  a  sweet  girl  in  this  neighbourhood.)  There,  Sa- 
rah, fareVell.  I  do  not  know  when  I  have  fallen,  so  na- 
turally, into  my  old  humour;  but  the  serious  face  that  I 
could  not  help  fancying  you  in,  when  you  wrote  that  in- 
terrogatory about  Mr.  Grenville,  did  divert  me,  that's 
the  truth  on't;  and  I  laughed  heartily,  when  I  came  to  it, 
again,  in  answering  you.  Yet — you  must  not  laugh;  at 
least,  not  at  him.  He  is  far  too  respectable  for  such  pas- 
time, 1  assure  you.  Once  more,  farewell  dear  Sarah, 
and  accept  this  long,  endless  letter,  as  an  offset  to  some 
of  yours — (quite  equivocal  that!) 


228  RANDOLPH. 


JOHX   TO   SARAH. 

O,  Sarah!— Sarah!  What  have  I  seen.  Where  have 
I  been!  With  whom  have  I  been  confederating?  Stop. 
Are  you  alone?  If  not,  go  to  your  room.  Lock  the  door. 
Now  listen.  Is  the  paper  spotted?  Are  the  spots  red? 
Do  not  shudder,  do  not,  though  they  be.  Stay — I  will 
be  calm.  The  red  stains  that  you  see  there — there — they 
are  continually  shifting  to  be  sure,  but  some  will  be 
there,  when  you  open  the  letter — they  are  blood.  It  is 
Molton's  blood.  He  is  an  adulterer.  Mary  Howard  is 
an  adultress.  Helen  Molton  is  an  adultress!  She  aban- 
doned her  husband — and  fled  with  Molton.  Retribution 
has  been  done  upon  him.  He  is  dying.  The  blessed 
Saint  is  avenged.  Juliet  is  avenged.  William  is  aveng- 
ed. Frank,  and  the  husband,  and  the  poor,  poor  father, 
all  are  avenged.  His  blood  is  upon  my  hands,  at  this 
moment — I  cannot  wash  it  off.  I  have  washed,  and 
washed — and  wept  upon  it — but  no,  it  will  not  depart. 

But  let  me  tell  the  story  calmly wait  a  little  while 

*  *=  =fc  I  went  at  nine  o'clock,  this  morning,  to  see 
Molton.  I  took  my  pistols  with  me.  I  was  desperate. 
I  did  not  believe  him  guilty.  He  had  told  me  a  plausi- 
ble story  about  Helen;  and  I  believed  it.  But  he  never 

told  me ah,  this  blood — the  smell  is  very  offensive — 

do  you  know  any  thing  that  \*ill  take  it  out,  Sarah? — 
He  never  told  me  that  she  was  married  to  another,  when 
he  came  away; — still  less,  that  it  was  her  husband,  whom 
he  had  slain,  upon  the  beach. — O,  no— if  he  had,  I  should 
never  have  deserved  the  reproach  of  intimacy  with  a 
man,  at  the  head  of  whose  table,  sat  his  mistress. — No; — 
I  knew  that  she  was  his  wife;  that  is,  I  thought  so; — and 
I  kept  the  secret,  because  he  prayed  it.  I 1 . 

Well — let  me  to  my  story — -..  As  I  approached  the 
house,  I  was  willing  to  see  if  Molton  was  in  his  study; 
and  I  went  through  the  wood,  therefore,  at  the  back  of  the 
house.  I  thought  it  a  pity  to  be  disappointed  again.  I 
saw  him.  I  knocked.  The  servant  denied  him.  I 


KAXDOLPH.  229 

wrote  a  line — what,  I  know  not;  bat,  here  is  the  answer^ 
on  the  very  card,  too,  just  as  it  was  written. 

"Young  man.-*-I  shall  be  at  your  service,  at  10.  It  is 
now,  9:?,  by  my  watch."  E.  M. 

I  was  unwilling  to  leave  the  gate;  but,  I  had  some 
sense  of  decorum  left.  I  turned  my  horse  into  the  wood, 
and  rode  about,  determining  never  to  quit  him,  alive^ 
till  he  had  satisfied  me,  as  to  what  he  had  said  of  Juliet^ 
what  he  wrote  to  Frank;  and  what  Frank  meant,  by  that 
mysterious  allusion  to  the  death  of  William.  I  had  seen 
Juliet,  several  times,  while  I  was  waiting  to  see  Molton; 
for  he  had  been  constantly  denied  to  me,  'till  1  would 
bear  it  no  longer.  But  she  knew  it  not. 

At  ten,  precisely,  1  rang  the  bell.  I  was  conducted 
in.  Molton  was  in  his  dressing  gown;  and  was  paler  and 
thinner,  nay,  sadder,  1  thought,  than  I  had  ever  seen  him. 
Am  1  intelligible?  I  must  tell  you  all  my  weakness.  My 
heart  smote  me,  for  a  moment.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  chok- 
ing. Might  1  not  have  been  too  precipitate?  How 
could  he  look  so — if my  blood  mounted  again.  No- 
he  was  not  innocent,  look  as  he  would! 

I  know  not  what  I  said;  but  he  sat,  I  remember,  leaning 
upon  his  hand,  with  his  eyes  lifted,  mournfully  and  fixedly 
upon  mine;  and  the  first  words  that  he  uttered,  in  reply, 
were  merely  these:  and  they  were  very  calmly  uttered.* 

"You  have  brought  your  pistols.  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  unwrapping  them,  and  offering  him 
one. 

He  put  it  back,  gently,  and  with  a  smile;  a  sickly, 
wan  smile,  not  so  much  in  derision,  the  habitual  one  of 
his  face,  at  such  moments,  as  in  compassion,  or  pity. 

".Nay,  sir — take  it— take  one — you  shall  take  one;" 
said  I,  determined  not  to  relent. 

He  took  one;  but,  with  a  carelessness,  that  looked 
more  as  if  he  wanted  to  convince  me  that  he  was  just  as 
little  in  my  power  thevs  as  before,  than  to  exchange  a  shot. 
I  trembled  with  passion.  What!  might  I  not  be  permit" 


230        .  RANDOLPH. 

ted  to  harm  him,  with  a  loaded  pistol  in  his  hand?  De- 
fenceless, t  could  not.  That ,  were  the  work  of  an  assas- 
sin. But  now,  I  prepared  to  fire — I  levelled.  What 

prevented  me,  I  know  not. There  was  a  dead  silence. 

His  melancholy  eyes  were  rivetted  upon  mine,  like  one, 
•weary  of  life,  willing  to  die,  but  sorry  to  die,  by  the  hand 
of  one  that  had  loved  him; — so,  1  interpreted  it.  Shall  I 
tell  the  truth?  My  eyes  ached— filled — and  my  arm 

fell  down,  powerless  at  my  side the  pistol  went  off 

a  shriek  followed and  the  apparition  of  my  bro- 
ther stood  before  me.  Helen  appeared,  for  a  moment; 
but,  rebuked,  I  suppose*  by  some  gesture  of  Molton,  for  no 
sound  escaped  him,  she  vanished  again.  I  only  remem- 
ber her,  as  I  do  all  the  rest—like  phantoms*  that  came 
and  went,  in  noise  and  smoke,  while  the  sound  of  the  pis- 
toJ  was  still  ringing  in  my  ears;  and  I  knew  not  that  my 
aim  at  Molton's  heurt  had  been  abandoned.  I  regarded 
myself  as  a  murderer.  He  sat  without  motion.  Mybro- 
therjstood  before  me.  I  dared  not  embrace  him;  his  counte- 
nance was  stern,  and  I  began  to  think,  though  it  was 
broad  day  light,  that  I  was  dreaming — nay,  perhaps  I 

am   dreaming,   yet! It  is  incredible  that  so  much 

should  have  happened  in  so  short  a  time.  There  is  my 
watch — and  the  hands  would  tell  me — but  they  lie — yes, 
they  lie — that,  not  two  hours  ago,  I  had  no  blood  upon 
my  conscience. 

>  Well— Frank  was  there.  It  was  Frank.  Whence  did 
he  come?  Did  he  drop  from  the  clouds? 

Molton's  hand  dropped; — he  fainted: — but  scarcely 
were  his  eyes  shut,  than  he  opened  them  again — and  or- 
dered the  door  to  be  shut,  and  locked. 

"Young  men,"  said  he,  "hear  me.  I  have  but  a  few 
•words  to  speak.  You  have  deliberately  sought  my  life. 
I  have  known  this,  for  weeks.  There  has  not  been  a  day, 
when  your  own  was  not  at  my  mercy.  You  might  have 

put  me  upon  retaliation.     Nay — you  have 1  speak 

to  both — to  you,  sir,  and  to  you you  have  said  things  to 

me,  which,  the  bare  possibility  that  I  am  an  innocent  and 
injured  man,  ought  to  have  prevented  you  from  saying. 
Permit  yourselves  but  to  suppose  it  possible,  for  one  mo- 


RANDOLPH. 

ment,  that  you  have  been  deceived;  and  what  must 
you  think  of  your  own  conduct?  You  have  pursued 
me,  to  ray  own  house.  You  have  waylaid  my  path.  You 
have  compelled  me  to  become  a  prisoner,  in  my  own  man- 
sion, that  I  might  not  have  my  blood  upon  your  hands; 
nor  yours  upon  mine.  How  many  more  there  may  be  of 
you,  1  know  not.  But — I  hope  your  aim  is  accomplish- 
ed. If  it  be  not,  my  patience  is  exhausted.  I  can  go  no 
further.  In  my  day  of  passion,  I  did  many  things  that 
I  would  avoid  now.  And,  if  I  survive  this,  I  shall  apply 
to  the  law.  Will  you  inform  me,  who  is  the  other  that 
has  haunted  me  so  long?  —lurking  about  my  ground — in 
this  country,  too — like  one  prowling  for  a  victim?  You 
are  silent.  Are  you  ashamed?" 

"I  know  of  none,"  said  my  brother,  humbly. 
"Nor  I — I  know  nothing  of  the  matter,"  said  I. 
"What! — Is  the  young  ruffian,  and  his  fellow,  who 
were  seen  skulking  about,  here,  some  months  ago,  un- 
known to  you,  sir.  A  tall  young  man — a  drab  coat— and 

very  erect,  proud  step " 

"I  met  such  a  man  "  said  I,  "this  morning,  in  the 
wood."  (For  I  remember  that  he  turned,  suddenly,  as 
my  horse  dashed  past  him;  and  put  his  hand  into  his  bo- 
som, like  one  surprised,  where  he  ought  not  to  be.  Nay, 
I  thought  that  he  looked  alarmed — but  I  attributed  that, 
afterward,  I  remember,  to  my  own  agitated  appearance; 
and  to  the  pistols,  wrapped  in  my  handkerchief,  to  be' 
sure,  that  I  carried  under  my  arm.) 

"I  knew  one  suiting  such  a  description,  once,"  said 
my  brother,  haughtily — "and  I  am  glad  to  hear  that  he 
is  so  near  to  me.  I  did  not  know  it,  before." 

I  looked  at  him  as  he  spoke.  His  voice  was  altered,, 
and  there  was  a  cold,  bright  meaning,  in  his  dark  eyes. 
I  knew  not  what  to  think. 

"Well,"  continued  Molton,  "you  may  marvel  why  I 
have  shown  sucii  forbearance  toward  you.  That  I  have, 
and  that  each  may  know,  from  the  other,  how  I  have 
treated  him,  \  will  give  you  an  opportunity  of  conversing 
together,  after  one  or  two  short  remarks.  My  strength 
ebbs  apace.  I  am  weaker  than  1  thought.  But,  I  think 
it  is  not  mortal.  You  have,  both  of  you,  called  me  a  cow- 


232  RANDOLPH. 

ard.  Did  you  believe  it?  If  you  did  not,  was  it  decent 
to  say  se?  If  you  did,  was  it  wise?  Nay,  was  it  bravely 
done?  Would  a  stout  heart  ever  battle  with  a  coward? 
So  much  for  what  you  have  said.  Now,  hear  me.  There 
was  a  time,  when,  had  you  done,  exactly  what  you  have 
now  done — I  beg  you  to  excuse  my  inarticulateness — it 
is  not  the  loss  of  blood,  but  the  consequence  of  agitation — 
and  put  yourselves  as  much  in  my  power,  as  you  have 
on  this  occasion,  you  should  have  died,  each  by  the  hand 
of  the  other.  You  shudder — nay,  I  can  see  a  smile  ga- 
thering in  your  faces.  You  do  not  believe  me.  But,  hear 
me  out.  I  was  willing  to  try  that,  now.  I  kept  you  apart. 
One  of  you  knows  that  our  meeting  was  to  have  been,  in 
silence,  this  evening.  Had  I  not  relented,  I  should  have 
made  the  same  appointment  with  you — (he  addressed 
himself  to  me) — and  each  would  have  met  his  brother. — 
Your  shots  would  have  been  exchanged,  in  silence,  and 
darkness.  The  signals — the  hour  would  have  been  the 
same — each  of  you  would  have  parted  from  me,  where 
you  now  stand,  and  you  never  would  have  known  the 
truth,  till  it  was  too  late.  Nay " 

I  saw  it  all— and  Frank  staggered  into  my  arms. 

"Great  God,"  said  he,  "it  is  true!  He  had  well  nigh 
done  it,  indeed!" 

I  heard  a  strange  sound  at  the  moment;  and,  as  I  turn- 
ed my  eyes,  I  saw  Molton  plucking  his  white  handker- 
-  chief,  drenched  with  blood,  from  his  side.  It  adhered 
closely,  and  ripped,  as  he  tore  it  away;  and  he  shook  a 
little,  as  with  pain.  Many  steps,  and  a  bustle,  were  then 
heard  in  the  landing. 

"I  pray  you,  sir,"  said  he,  to  me,  "if  you  have  any 
mercy  on  me,  not  to  permit  Helen  to  enter  here,  for  the 
present." 

My  brother  sat  down,  like  one  utterly  deprived  of 
strength;  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

I  went  to  the  landing,  and  saw  Helen — her  hair  all 
loose — her  dress  disordered — clinging  about  the  knees 
of  an  old  man — the  very  old  man,  too — I  knew  him,  at 
the  first  glance — that  I  saw  with  Frank,  so  long  ago. — . 
She  called  him— father!  father!  dear  father!  But  he  stood 


BANDOLPH,  233 

stern,  and  like  a  judge,  before  her.  Yet  he  was  her  fa- 
ther— he  was.' — for  I  saw  his  forehead  move,  at  last; — 
and  his  chest  heaved— oh,  with  such  tremendous  emo- 
tion— I  thought  that  his  soul  was  departing,  erect,  from 
her  habitation.  But,  the  tears  came,  at  last,  and  he  fell 
upon  his  child's  neck,  and  sobbed,  as  though  his  old  heart 
would  break. 

"Oh,  my  lost,  lost  babe!" — said  the  old  man. 

I  had  left  the  door  open.  I  heard  a  noise,  I  turned. 
There  was  my  brother;  and  Molton,  with  his  hand  upon 
his  side,  leaning  against  the  door  frame; — his  troubled 
eyes  rivetted,  with  a  look  of  strange  inquietude,  upon  the 
scene. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  he  said,  at  last,  in  a 
voice  scarcely  louder  than  a  whisper. 

But  Helen  heard  him.  Ears  that  love,  are  quick  and 
jealous.  They  will  have  nothing  of  the  musick,  that  they 
love,  lost. 

"It  is  my  father!"  said  she — rising,  and  throwing  her- 
self upon  the  bosom  of  Molton.  He  caught  her  in  his 
arms.  I  trembled  for  the  consequence;  but  the  handker- 
chief clung  to  the  wound,  and  his  gown  covered  it. 

The  old  man  arose — came  forward,  with  a  firm  step; 
exchanged  a  look  with  Frank,  and  would  have  taken 
something  from  his  bosom;  but  Frank  arrested  his  arm. 
("He  is  a  dead  man,  already,"  said  Frank.)  But  he 
came  forward,  nevertheless,  and  was  about  to  lay  his 
hand  upon  Helen — when  the  intrepid,  cold  eye  of  Molton 
lightened  outright — "By  the  living  God!"  he  cried,  "if 
— nay,  I  am  too  rash,  perhaps — art  thou,  indeed  her  fa- 
ther? Helen,  look  up,  love, — is  he  thy  father?" 

"He  is!"  cried  Helen,  kneeling,  and  kissing  his  feet, 
while  her  dark  tresses  swept  over  them,  in  her  agony — 
"O,  forgive  me!  Edward.  He  is  my  lather." 

«I  do! — I  do.'99  answered  Molton — raising  her,  and 
staggering.  The  father  stood  there — not  a  limb  trem- 
bled. 

Daughter!"  cried  the  old  man — "hear  me.  Lift  up  thy 
hands.  Renounce  thy  destroyer,  forever— renounce  him, 
there — there,  where  thou  standest,  before  these  witnesses; 
W 


234  RANDOLPH, 

and  thy  father's  heart  is  open  to  thee  from  this  moment? 
I  know  his  power — I  will  forgive  thee! — bless  theei— 
weep  over  thee! — forget  thy  shame,  and  thy  dishonour! — 
kneel  to  thee! — if  thou  wilt.  But — but— daughter — I  will 
never  pronounce  thy  name,  again;  no  human  being  knows 
it,  yet — none  shall  know  it--~daughter! — if  thou  wilt  not, 
here,  where  /stand — here,  before  the  same  witnesses,  will 
I  curse  thee!" 

Helen  only  clung  the  more  vehemently  to  Molton;  and 
buried  her  face  the  deeper  in  his  bosom. 

"Daughter! — wife! — a  father's  and  a  mother's  curse!— 
a  husband's  curse! — a " 

She  raised  herface — Lord!  how  altered  it  was!  "Hush! 
hush!"  said  she.  "Do  not  believe  him,  Edward — do  not. 
Father!  there  is  my  husband!" 

"He! — he  thy  husband! — then  what  art  thou?"  cried  the 
old  man. 

Molton's  countenance,  then,  was  like  one  falling  asleep. 
Death  was  upon  him.  He  gradually  sank  upon  the  sofa; 
and  Helen  stood  over  him,  kissing  his  forehead — wiping 
the  sweat  from  his  lips — and  answering  their  occasional 
movement; — for  no  sound  escaped  them — as  if  she  under- 
stood it  all — as  if  her  very  heart  had  a  language  of  its 
own,  and  kept  uttering  it,  inwardly — with  a  continual 
whisper  of  "oh,  do  not — do  not  believe  it,  Edward!99 

But  he  gained  more  strength.  His  spirit  awoke,  for  a 
moment.  She  was  putting  back  his  hair. 

"Helen!99  said  he — his  eyes  were  rivetted  on  her  with 
such  a  look! — O,  of  unutterable  tenderness,  struggling 
with  death.  "Helen!  look  at  me.  I  never  doubted  thee. 
Yet — here  is  thy  father.  Is  there  a  husband,  too?  Look 
me  in  the  face,  Helen." 

"A  husband!99  said  the  stern  father— "Yes!  What  mock- 
ery is  this?" 

"Silence!99  said  Molton.  "I  ask  her.  Helen!  love,  look 
upon  me.  1  do  not  doubt  thee,  yet.  Just  whisper  it — let 
thy  sweet  lips  move,  and  I'll  believe  them,  say  what  they 
will — nay,  though  thy  husband  stand  before  me,  at  the 
time." 

"Stand  before  thee! — thou  terrible  man!  By  heaven, 
he  shall  stand  before  thee.  ORFORD!  ORFORD!  I  say." 


RANDOLPH.  235 

At  this  name,  I  saw  Helen  shudder.  She  arose,  and 
stood,  fronting  the  broad  stair  case.  I  heard  a  step.  The 
"young  and  interesting  stranger,"  appeared. 

"Behold  him  there!"  cried  the  father. 

Molton  turned — but  when  he  saw  his  face,  weak  as  he 
was,  he  half  arose  from  his  seat,  with  a  look  of  incon- 
ceivable horrour  and  alarm.  A  convulsive  motion  of  the 
hand  followed — like  one  grasping  a  dagger,  and  ready 
to  give  a  blow — and  then  he  smiled — smiled  so  beautiful- 
ly, so  like  a  dying  Christian — that  I  could  have  fallen 
down,  too,  and  wept  upon  his  feet,  and  wiped  them  with 
my  hair. 

"  Young  man,"  he  said,  "I  am  glad  of  this  assurance. 
Our  feud,  I  feared,  was  mortal.  Let  us  forget  it." 

He  proffered  his  hand,  as  he  said  this;  but  Orford 
struck  it  away,  with  scorn. 

Molton's  forehead  reddened;  a  short,  but  fierce,  bright 
struggle,  followed;  and,  he  then  added,  in  a  low,  sweet, 
solemn  voice — "Men,  bear  witness  for  me.  I  hare  offer- 
ed my  hand,  as  a  dying  man — nay,  Helen,  forgive  me; 
something  has  happened  more  than  thou  knowest  of,  yet; 
do  not  look  at  me,  in  that  manner — i  have  offered  it  to 
one,  that  insulted  and  abused  that  woman,  Helen — to  one, 
that  would  have  taken  her  from  me,  when  I  was  her  hus- 
band  Nay,  sir — or,  if  your  name  be  Orford — hear  me, 

for  one  little  moment; a  man  that  would  scourge  a 

woman — attempt  to  ravish  a  wife  from  her  lord — would 
be  not  the  least  likely  to  reject,  with  scorn,  the  hand  of 
a  dying  man." 

Some  movement  of  the  stranger's  arm,  was  here  inter- 
cepted by  Frank,  and  the  report  of  a  small  pocket  pistol 
followed,  close  at  my  ear. 

"What,  sirs!"  cried  Molton,  "have  you  no  decency? 
By  heaven,  I  have  fellows  that  would  grind  your  bones  to 
dust,  were  I  but  to  speak  the  word! — and  yet,  at  every 
turn,  I  am  in  danger  of  assassination.  What!  ho!  Pedro! 
Cadiz!  Marco! " 

Instantly,  we  were  surrounded  with  six  or  eight  of  his 
young  Spanish  negroes. 


236  BANDOLPH. 

"Boys!  Throw  the  first  man  out  of  the  window,  that 
you  see  move  his  arm,"  said  he,  coldly;  but  with  the  as- 
pect  of  mortal  determination. 

They  stood  ready  to  ohey.  "As  for  you,  sir— Orford, 
as  you  are  called — I  have  little  doubt  that  you  are  a  cow- 
ard. Beware!  Nothing  can  save  you.  if  you  advance 
a  finger.  Your  conduct,  on  two  occasions,  within  my 
own  knowledge,  justifies  this  opinion.  But,  you  know 
him  well,  Helen.  Will  you  not  bear  witness  to  his  gen- 
tleness— his  humanity— his  courage?  Why  so  silent, 
love?  Nay,  be  not  cast  down.  These  are  friends.  I  am 
glad  to  see  the  young  man  alive;  not  that  he  deserves  to 
Ibe;  but,  I  would'nthave  such  blood  upon  my  conscience. 
It  were  fitter  for  the  executioner.  Speak,  love.  Shame 
the  wretch,  at  once!  Shame  him  to  everlasting  silence! 
Show  him  thy  beautiful  arms,  scarred  and  bruised — the 
places  where  the  iron  rusted  into  thy  flesh-  -the He- 
len, what  ails  thee?  Why  a  voidest  thou  mine  eye?  Is 
there  any  mystery  in  this?  Speak!  I  never  saw  thee 
thus,  before.  Speak!  I  conjure  thee!  Yet  stay — a  thought 
— a no,  no — I  will  not  imagine  it.  I'll  only  remem- 
ber, dear,  that — come  nearer,  love,  nearer — nay,  sir,  be- 
ware how  you  move — it  will  be  the  signal  of  your  death 
— I  mention  it  for  your  sake — tell  me,  dear.  Something 
was  said,  but  now,  about  some  other  husband;  some  other 
than  me — you  see  that  I  smile,  Helen;  but,  while  I  re- 
member it,  it  were  as  well,  1  think,  to  smile  with  me—- 
do smile,  Helen,  do — I  do  not  trouble  thee  to  say  no; 

but  smile,  dear,  smile  once,  as  Y  have  seen  thee,  when 
not  a  thousandth  part  so  idly  slandered. Tears! — si- 
lence!— Helen,  beware! The  eye  of  the  Everlasting 

God  is  upon  thee! Nay,  nay — do  not  press  thyself  to 

ne — do  not — thou  must  answer  me!  Answer  me,  now! 
f  will  take  nothing,  but  thy  word.  Arise,  and  answer 
ne!  Thou  knottiest  me." 

Helen  fainted.  And  Mol ton— just  saying  to  the  blacks, 
in  Spanish,  Let  them  go  free — plucked  the  handkerchief 
from  the  wound,  and  fell  back,  saying  faintly — "Then 
am  I,  indeed,  0  Saviour  of  men,  what  I  most  dreaded— 
an  adulterer,'99 


RANDOLPH. 

Justly  afraid  of  the  consequences,  I  persuaded  Frank 
and  the  father  to  go,  till  we  knew  the  result;  but  the  hus- 
band would  not  depart,  till  the  sight  of  Molton's  shoes, 
full  of  blood,  made  him  think,  I  suppose,  that  the  wound 
had  been  given  by  his  hand.  I  took  advantage  of  the 
thought,  and  offered  him  my  horse;  and  he  is  gone. 

Yes,  he  is  an  adulterer!  But,  what  am  I  to  think?  You 
did  not  know  of  her  marriage;  nay,  you  did  not  even 
know,  that  he  was  the  suspected  one; — or  that  he  came  in 
the  vessel  with  her.  Was  the  secret  so  well  kept  in  Eng- 
land? But  how  could  he  have  been  so  deceived?  O,  he 
must  have  known  it.  This  tale  is  all  a  farce-^a  farce, 
between  life  and  death!  No,  that  cannot  be.  Men  become 
serious,  then; — and  such  men,  who  are  habitually  serious 
and  contemplative,  they  would  not  be  very  likely  to  play 

such  pranks.  But,  perhaps,  the  wound Ha! — you 

know  him,  Sarah — you  have  called  him  a  "consummate 
actor."  May  not  all  this  be  an  artifice.  It  is — it  u.ust 
be.  At  least,  if  he  be  not  seriously  wounded,  it  must  be. 
But  how  shall  we  know  that?  I'll  go  myself.  O,  the 
thought  is  refreshing! — look  at  my  hands,  Sarah! — look; 
the  blood  has  gone  from  them,  with  the  thought— and  the 
paper,  too — O,  it  is  all  white  again,  as  the  driven  snow! 

Ha!  Frank  is  here.          *        *        *        *        *        * 

********* 
********** 

Well — Frank  has  just  left  me.  My  suspicions  are, 
again,  at  rest; — and  my  terrours  revive.  Molton  has 
sent  for  me.  That  shows  no  desire  of  concealment,  cer- 
tainly. What,  if  I  have  wronged  him? ah! — ah! — it 

will  kill  me.  And  you,  Sarah — but  for  you,  perhaps — 
Nay,  I  cannot  blame  you,  for  you  taught  me  to  avoid 
him. 

Frank  says,  that  he  has  been  here,  for  ten  days,  con- 
cealed; that  he  saw  Molton  three  days  ago,  and  agreed 
to  meet  him,  on  notice;  that  the  notice  was  given  him 
this  morning,  while  I  was  there,  no  doubt;  and  that  he 
was  on  the  spot — the  study — preparatory  for  the  evening 
•—when,  hearing  my  voice,  which  he  di^  not  expect,  he 

wa 


• 


RANDOLPH. 

stepped  into  the  next  room;  that  the  sound  of  the  pistol, 
and  the  shriek,  alarmed  him;  and  he  entered,  supposing, 
till  now,  that  I  had  deliberately  shot  Molton.  I  now  re- 
member the  heroick  conduct  of  that  man.  All  the  while  that 
we  were  together,  not  a  look,  not  a  word,  escaped  him, 
to  charge  me  with  unfairness.  He  retained  his  pistol. — 
Poor  Molton.  Yes,  I  must  see  him. 

The  father,  it  appears,  has  relented  somewhat  toward 
him.  He  begins  to  believe  it  possible,  that  there  was  no 
such  deliberate  seduction,  as  he,  at  first,  supposed.  Nay, 
since  he  finds  that,  from  the  first,  Molton  used  no  dis- 
guise in  his  names  for  he  lias  a  letter  from  him,  signed 
"Edward  Molton,"  he  begins  to  think  it  possible,  that  he 
was  deceived;  for  Helen  had  not  been  married  one  hour, 
when  she  escaped.  The  father  prevented  the  publication; 
and,  believing  Molton's  name  fictitious,  he  never  trusted 
it  to  any  person  in  America;  but  always  spoke  of  his 
daughter,  and  pursued  her,  as  unmarried. 

Nay,  when  the  thought  came  to  him,  that  Molton  might 
be  innocent  of  the  greater  evil,  he  actually  wept.  My 
brother,  then,  ventured  to  tell  what  he  knew,  and  what 
he  had  seen.  The  father  shuddered.  "The  story  of  the 
guardian,  is  false,"  said  he.  *<She  had  no  other  guardian 
than  myself,  her  natural  father.  But,  there  is  a  frightful 
mystery  in  the  matter,  which  I  cannot  explain,  yet.  I 
cannot." 

Farewell! — farewell.  If  Molton  should  die,  I  shall 
never  sleep  again.  Nay,  why  should  I  wish  to  sleep? — 
It  will  only  be  to  hear  the  report  of  the  pistol — it  is  ring- 
ing in  my  ears  yet — to  see  the  dark  blood,  swimming — 

oozing — pattering,  like  heavy  rain O,  it  is  horrible 

good  night! 

Frank  would  have  made  no  use  of  the  bundle,  he  says; 
the  "charm."  He  came  to  fight  him. 

Mieu. 

JOHN  OMAR. 


RANDOLPH.  239 

JANE  TO  CLARA  P . 

1  shall  be  with  you  to-morrow,  "matronised,"  as  we  of 
thft  ton  say  now,  by  Miss  Matilda,  my  sweet  maiden 
aunt.  Prepare  yourself  for  the  wonder — here  has  been 
the  devil  to  pay.  I  have  just  come  to  the  truth  of  the 
whole  story.  All  the  town  is  ringing  with  it — but  you 
may  depend  upon  it,  my  way.  Molton's  girl  is  only  his 
wife.  She  is  also  another  man's  wife;  another  man — I 
shall  make  it  very  intelligible,  I  see  plainly! — has  come 
after  her — just  as  I  have  expected,  always,  you  know;  it 
being  just  the  wickedest  way  of  accounting  for  appear- 
ances; and  I  knew  enough  of  Ned  Molton  to  feel  pretty  sure 
that  that  was  the  true  way.  So  it  proves.  Well — the 
husband  shot  Molton — and  Miss  Helen,  "the  wife  of  two 
husbands,"  has  gone  into  fits,  I  take  it,  according  to  form; 
and  the  husband  has  runaway  with  Mr.  John  Omar's 
beautiful  horse!  If  that  won't  be  a  consolation  to  him — 
unless  he's  caught — for  the  loss  of  any  wife,  he  must  be 
quite  a  remarkable  creature  among  the  race  of  modern 
husbands.  But  there  is  something  more.  Her  father  is 
come.  They  have  been  here  too,  skulking  about  Phila- 
delphia, to  the  knowledge  of  the  Mayor,  for  a  whole  age. 
Beside,  it  is  said  that  they  mean  to  mob  Molton. — 
They'd  better  not — sick  or  dead,  he  will  give  them  a  hot 
reception.  His  house  is  full,  from  garret  to  cellar,  with 
black  Patagonians,  creatures  that  he  has  caught  some- 
where in  South  America;  they  can't  speak  a  word  of  Eng- 
lish, and  have  no  other  notion  of  duty,  than  to  do  just  what 
he  bids  them.  That  they  would  cut  any  body's  throat 
at  his  bidding,  there  is  no  doubt;  and  how  can  you  pun- 
ish him,  in  such  a  case?  They  cannot  tell  talcs — no 
more  than  so  many  brutes.  Is'nt  he  a  precious  fellow — 
that  Molton?  What  a  pretty  chap  for  a  hovel,  if  he  on- 
ly lived  in  Italy,  or  any  where  but  in  America,  "the  land 
of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave" — ahem! — I  should 
like  to  see  a  little  more  of  both,  and  hear  less  of  it.  Who 
would  believe  that  such  things  were  perpetrated,  directly 
under  our  noses,  in  the  nineteenth  century,  (I  believe  'tis 
the  nineteenth)  in  this,  our  peaceable  county.  Is'nt  it 


240 

enough  to  make  one's ^todr  stiffen  with  affright!  I  de- 
clare my  bed  shakes  under  me,  sometimes,  when  I  think 
of  what  we  are  coming  to.  \Ve  are  getting  as  had  as  the 
English.  Murders  are  things  of  every  day  occurrence, 
here,  since  the  war.  Our  ears  were  made  familiar,  it 
would  seem,  with  it  then — and  that,  and  the  wars  of  Eu- 
rope, have  deluged  us  with  all  the  banditti  and  ruffians 
of  the  world.  Another  thing — there  was  the  father,  the 
husband,  Frank  Omar,  and  John  Omar;  all  agreed  to 
"have  a  crack  at  him,"  as  they  express  it  here — so  he 
could  not  escape  you  know.  But  the  privilege  of  being 
first  shot  at,  was  yielded  (without  much  dispute  I  dare 
say)  to  tlie  husband.  Lord! — what  cattle  they  are.  So, 
if  Ned  .should  get  well  now,  he  must  fall  in  the  long  run, 
or  begin  a  long  run,  directly,  and  never  come  back  again. 
O — Juliet  is  to  be  married.  Circulate  the  report;  but 
Hon'tsay  from  whom  you  get  it,  till  it  is  necessary,  to 
make  it  go  down.  By  that  time,  they  will  forget  of  whom 
they  had  it — and  all  will  be  well.  I  want  her  ears  to  get 
accustomed  to  that; — and  then  you  may  give  his  name. 
It  is  Grenville.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  him,  to-morrow; 
and  give  you  a  specimen  of  his  conversation,  literally. — 
It  is  one  continual  episode.  Thus,  he  began  the  other 
evening  to  speak  of  machinery.  He  began  with  Ark- 
wrights;  he  went  on  with  ear-rings;  watches;  card  ma- 
chines; printing  presses;  but  let  me  folio  whim,  in  his  own 
way,  from  Harper's  Ferry  to  the  planet  J  upiter.  which  was 
quite  a  natural  digression  for  him.  They  compare  him 
(in  derision,  I  suppose,)  to  John  Randolph.  But  one  dif- 
ference is  plain  enough  to  me,  already.  Randolph  has 
been  known  to  get  back,  sometimes,  to  the  point  whence  he 
started; — nay,  always,  i  may  say,  in  argument.  But 
Grenville  never,  in  any  case,  whatever; — every  step  is  a 
point — and  erery  point — a  centre  to  wrhich  he  never  re- 
turns. One  might  trace  his  course  on  a  map,  by  a  Con- 
greve  rocket,  that  should  have  the  faculty  of  exploding, 
whenever  it  struck  the  ground — or  the  subject — and  then 
darting  off  again,  in  a  tangent.  He  seems  to  have  gr<  at 
constitutional  vivacity,  although  his  faculties,  and  his 
senses  toe,  are  fettered  by  this  new  influence,  till  he  looks, 


RANDOLPH.  241 

at  her  side,  like  Apathy  listening  to  mysterious  sympho- 
nies, "coming  out  of  the  grass,"  with  odour  and  beau- 
ty— all  about  him — ha! — what  think  you  of  that? 

Some  one  happened  to  name  the  name  of  General  Har- 
per— we  were  speaking  of  his  fine  talent  and  heart; — and 
then,  of  the  strange  fact,  that  he  was  permitted  to  review 
the  British  troops,  in  the  face  and  eyes  of  Lord  Welling- 
ton. 

"O,  speaking  of  General  Harper,"  said  Mr.  Grenville, 
"that  reminds  me  of  Harper's  Ferry — ever  there?—!  was 
— always  mention  it — travelling  for  pleasure — went  to 
the  armoury — some  notion  of  being  comfortable — thought 
it  was  about  time  to  begin  to  think  about  getting  mar- 
ried— after  a  wife — know  of  any?  Manage  to  make  the 
pot  boil,  may  be.  Jefferson's  rock's  mighty  dangerous 
— names  carved  to  the  brink — -most  curious  thing — like 
to  a'been  washed  away  in  a — hem — mill  race.  "Durst 
thou  Cassius,"  said  1,  leap  with  me,  &c. — and  in  I  went 
— Lord! — it  took  my  breath  away — scarified  me — whiz- 
zed and  whirled  me  about,  like  soap-suds  in  a  gutter. 
I  would 'nt  recommend  to  you  to  bathe  in  a  mill  race 
(you  will  recollect  that  women  only  were  present) — 
bad  place  to  learn  to  swim  in — ahem — the  most  curious 
thing  that  I  saw,  was  a  turning  lathe — just  invented — 
turns  gun-stocks  whole — *»lock,  stock  and  barrel" — 
'Twas'nt  exactly  the  wisest  thing  that  ever  was  done,  I 
confess;— I  might  have  been  drowned — but  I  never  lose 
my  presence  of  mind,  at  such  moments,  I  mean — nay,  wo- 
men themselves  do  not — there  was  an  iron  mould  made 
in  the  shape  of  a  gun-stock — upon  this,  a  number  of  in- 
struments were  graduated;  corresponding  exactly  with 
others,  above — ahem — those  at  the  top  had  edges — those 
below  had  none — the  wheel  revolved,  the  chips  flew,  and 
out  came  a  gun-stock! — ahem — wonderful  contrivance — 
very  curious  indeed — re  volutions  are  naturally  in  a  circle 
— you  would  think.it  difficult  to  turn  an  oval — a  hecta- 
gon — a  square — but  this  machine  does  more — all  at  once; 
many  ovals — capable  of  universal  application — very  sim- 
ple, the  principle!  What  a  people  we  are!  for  invention, 
and  improvement! — emphatically  our  national  character. 
There's  Arkwright  now,  and  Wedgewood — you've  heard 


242  RANDOLPH. 

of  both;  well — ahem — there's  our  Perkins,  and  Fair 
man,  and  Rittenhouse;  and — oh,  it  is  amusing — when  the 
patentee  of  the  machine  to  make  cards — did  you  ever  see 
it?  One  twist  o'  the  wheel-— wire  crooked — cut — holes 
punched — teeth  placed— just  like  the  human  fingers — 
more  exact — when  a  committee  of  the  national  insti- 
tute were  invited  to  see  it,  in  Paris,  they  laughed  at  the 
specification — they  said  it  was  impossible — they  saw 
it.  And  they  say  that  there  is  nothing  like  it,  under 
heaven.  General  Harper,  they  say,  is  the  best  parade 
officer  in  the  world.  Nay,  those  who  know  him  best, 
say  that  his  military  talent  is  his  predominant  talent, — 
a  profound  statesman — a  great  orator — poh! — a  first  rate 
lawyer — but  a  greater  general— ahem — strange  how  we 

follow  their  nobility.     Did  you   ever  know  Miss , 

Miss,  that  was — or  Miss .     I've  heard  that  she  said 

she  would  prefer  being  the  Mistress  of  a  prince,  to  the 
wife  of  sm  American  citizen!— shame  on  her! — reproach 
to  the  country — no  true  American  citizen,  after  that 
speech,  would  marry  her,  if  she  could  pave  his  house  with 
gold — ahem — never  mind — she  may  live  to  be  the  mis- 
tress, yet,  of  Lord  Wellington,  or  some  other  spoilt  Irish- 
man. Thank  you  for  another  song,  Miss  J  uly — ahem — an 
Irishman's  a  prince — till  he  be  spoilt  by  a  peerage — Cur- 
ran — Sheridan— Swift,  &c.  &c.  &c. — hey?  Strange 
things  are  whispered  of  some  American  ladies — they  had 
better  stay  where  they  are — we  are  not  made  for  train 
bearers;  our  ladies,  I  mean — let  us  dance  as  we  will,  and 
prattle  ever  so  innocently,  and  ask  ever  so  many,  sweet, 
pretty,  simple  questions — « Grand-pa — is  I  got  a  gizzard.9 
His  family  plate  is  pawned— jewels— a  constellation.--- 
Oh— a  new  planet  is  discovered — and  we  are  to  have  war 
with  Spain — a  broad  belt  encompasses  it; — and  $hey  say 
there  are  two  or  three  moons.  I  wonder  if  there  are 
many  lunaticks,  or  lovers — synonimous,  you  know--- 

there — in  proportion  to  the  number  of  moons 1 

I 1" . 

There,  dear,  that  is  a  fair  specimen  of  his  trumpery, 
I  leave  you  to  judge  of  the  man.  But  circulate  the  re- 
port. Leave  the  rest  to  me. 

JANE, 


RANDOLPH.  245 

SABAH  TO  JULIET, 

(Enclosed  in  the  following,  from  Dr.  George  Wallace.} 

Salem. 

Mr.  Ramsay  died  last  evening,  between  ten  and  ele- 
ven, with  little  pain,  and  in  the  full  possession  of  his  fa- 
culties. His  daughter  is  seriously  indisposed;  but  she  haff 
the  best  medical  attention  in  the  country;  and  her  deport- 
ment toward  her  father,  during  his  short  illness,  has  made 
her  many  friends.  Be  assured,  madam,  that  she  shall  want 
for  nothing.  She  wrote  a  note  yesterday  morning,  and 
gave  it  to  me,  with  your  address,  requesting  me,  if  the 
event  should  be  as  we  anticipated,  to  enclose  it  to  you. 
She  took  to  her  bed,  immediately;  or  rather,  we  carried 
her,  by  force,  from  the  presence  of  her  father,  who  com- 
manded it;  and  she  is  now  delirious.  Mr.  Ramsay  re- 
ceived every  attention  and  kindness,  that  he  could  have 
received  at  home.  A  catholick  clergyman,  from  Boston, 
one  of  the  most  amiable  and  benevolent  of  men,  was  with 
him  all  the  time,  during  the  last  two  days;  and  no  human 
being  ever  manifested  more  resignation,  after  he  was 
told  that  death  was  inevitable.  At  first,  he  was  a  good 
deal  agitated;  yet,  he  told  me,  not  an  hour  afterward, 
that  he  knew  he  should  die  in  my  house,  the  first  night 
that  he  slept  here.  I  laughed  at  the  notion  then,  but  it 
was  verified.  He  did  die,  in  the  very  room,  in  the  very 
bed,  and  at  the  very  hour  which  he  had  foretold.  I  have 
had  some  experience  in  these  things;  and  am  willing  to 
attribute  much  to  the  imagination;  but,  when  I  see  a  so- 
ber, sensible  man,  like  him,  yielding  up  to  a  belief  that  he 
has  seen  a  spirit — pardon  me,  madam,  I  am  little  inclined 
to  provoke  a  smile  at  such  a  moment;  but,  Mr.  Ramsay, 
not  an  hour  before  his  death,  told  me,  that  his  wife  had 
appeared  to  him,  and  summoned  him.  Was  there  any 
thing  remarkable  in  her  death?  I  ask  the  question,  from 
some  mysterious  observations  that  I  heard  escape  him, 
in  conversation  with  his  daughter,  respecting  the  matter, 
when  he  was  first  taken  ill.  He  told  his  physicians  and 
me,  that  nothing  could  save  him;  but,  desired  us  not  to 


244  HANDOEPH. 

inform  her.  We  tried  all  that  we  could,  to  divert  his  mind 
from  meditating  on  the  subject.  But  all  in  vain.  Even 
medicine  had  no  effect  upon  him.  Can  the  mind  coun- 
teract such  things? — neutralize  our  poisons — dilute  and 
dissipate  the  most  corrosive,  and  fiery  applications? — 
Is  that  sympathy  so  vital,  that  the  blood  cannot  he  chil- 
led, where  the  mind  is  preternatu rally  heated?  It  was, 
in  his  case.  Blisters  were  applied.  They  came  off,  as 
they  went  on.  His  skin  had  lost  its  sensibility.  Purg- 
es and  emeticks  were  given.  No  effect  was  produced^ 
The  stomach  and  howels  were  impenetrable.  Laudanum 
followed;  but,  the  only  result  was,  a  more  mortal  cold- 
ness in  the  extremities;  no  sluggishness,  no  torpor; — 
the  blood,  therefore,  was  beyond  our  dominion.  It  is 
considered  here,  the  most  extraordinary  case,  within  our 
experience;  but  we  are  told  that  such  things  may  be,  in 
the  books;  and  our  limited  observation  would  seem  to 
confirm  the  position.  Sudden  fright,  I  have  known  to 
pro i luce  death — and  to  restore  drunken  men.  And  the 
sea-sickness,  always  ceases,  when  the  danger  of  ship- 
wreck is  imminent. 

I  am,  respectfully,  dear  madam, 

Four  most  obedient,  humble  servant, 

GEORGE  WALLACE. 
(NOTE,  ENCLOSED.) 

O,  Juliet — if  it  should  come  to  pass — if  he  should  be 
taken  from  me,  what  will  become  of  me?  Juliet,  dear, 
blessed  Juliet — I  cannot  leave  him,  even  to  write  this — 
every  breath  that  he  draws,  goes  to  my  heart — O,  it  is  a 
judgment  upon  me.  I  have  forgotten  to  pray — forgotten 

to -nay,  what  have  I  not  forgotten — what  was  left  to 

me,  after  I  forgot  my  Maker — -.  O,  Father  of  mer- 
cies, Father!  spare  him! O,  spare  him! .  I  must 

go  to  the  bed  side — he  moves — farewell — if  you  receive 
this,  you  will  understand  it.  The  word  death,  may  not 
be  in  it — but  Death  will  be  the  bearer . 


RANDOLPH.  245 

MAD;:  VERNON  TO  JULIET. 

•-: 
My  sweet  child. 

Your  letter  (bund  me  so  ill,  that  it  was  thought  inex- 
pedient to  open  it;  and,  when  was  1  well  enough  to  read 
it,  it  was  not  to  be  found;  nor,  did  any  of  us  conjecture 
from  whom  it  came.  I  had  left  no  direction  for  open- 
ing it;  and,  as  you  had  not  written  to  me,  for  so  long  a 
time,  it  never  occurred  to  me,  that  my  dear  Juliet  was 
the  writer.  But,  to-day,  we  have  found  it,  unopened, 
carefully  put  away,  with  some  old  papers,  of  no  value. 

I  tore  it  open,  and  read  it,  with  feelings,  I  am  sure, 
that  my  poor  patient  child,  would  not  willingly  cause  her 
mother;  let  me  be  still  your  mother,  Juliet,  the  endear- 
ing name — O,  it  is  tender  and  welcome  to  my  widowed, 
childless  heart; — yet,  dear,  why  should  I  complain  of  it? 
The  tears  that  followed,  and  blinded  my  old  eyes, 
were  tears  of  pleasure,  as  well  as  bitterness.  To  find 
my  babe  restored  to  health,  ag'ain,  O,  that  were  enough 
to  make  me  endure  any  thing. 

But  Juliet,  tell  me  the  whole  truth,  dear — all  thy  suf- 
fering. NO — 1  am  \vrong — do  not.  O,  my  heavenly 
Father,  why  snould  we  repine,  aged,  and  weary,  and 
worthless  as  we  are,  when  we  see  the  innocent  and  love- 
ly; the  pure  of  heart,  and  the  very  beautiful,  so  helpless 
and  miserable!  Juliet,  what  can  I  do  for  thee.  Shall  I 
weep? — behold  my  tears;  my  glasses  are  dim  with  them, 
and  the  paper  is  blistered — my  prayers? — O,  while  I 
lock  my  withered  hands,  and  pray  for  thee,  mayest  thou 
feel  the  warmth  of  His  love,  flowing  into  thy  dear  heart, 
as  it  does  into  mine,  old  as  it  is,  whenever  I  prostrate  my- 
self, devoutly,  before  him.  Let  that  prayer  be  granted; 
and  thou  hast  nothing  more  to  wish.  Thou  wilt  be  hap- 
py. O,  dear  Juliet,  when  a  poor,  lone,  dark  woman, 
like  me;  beset,  as  (  am;  bereaved  as  I  have  been,  can 
find  that  a  consolation,  for  the  loss  of  husband,  chil- 
dren, friends,  youth,  riches,  and  health,  in  widow- 
hood, and  childlessness,  O,  believe  that  there  is  a  divin- 
ity in  religion— a  truth,  in  that  blessed  Book,  upon  which 
ray  hand  is  now  lying — believe  it,  and  thou  wilt  be  hap- 
py, happen  what  will. 
.X. 


246  RANDOLPH. 

Yet,  thy  calamities  are  not  light;  not  light;  I  well 
know  that*  Juliet.  Thy  uncomplaining,  quiet  disposi- 
tion, never  speaks,  while  it  has  a  tear  left;  and  when  thy 
tears,  poor,  gentle  heart,  are  all  shed,  when  they  are  ex- 
hausted, hard  must  have  been  the  pressure.  0,1  do  pity 
thee — I  do,  from  my  soul,  my  dear  child.  But  look  up 
to  Him — pray  to  Him,  unceasingly.  He  will  interfere 
for  thee.  Hath  He  promised  it,  and  shall  He  not  do  it? 
What  shall  1  say  of  Grenville?  What  I  know  of  him, 
is  entirely  in  his  favour.  He  wants  dignity,  I  confess; 

and,  most  of  all,  that  intellectual  dignity,  which 

nay,  my  dear  child — let  us  abandon  all  such  thought; — 
and  once  more,  only  once  more,  will  I  mention  him.  It  is 
now. — 1  am  amazed  at  his  blackness.  1  knew  that  he  was 
rash,  and  a  creature  of  violent  passions; — but  I  thought 
that  he  had  arrived  at  their  mastery.  He  had  given 
such  proof.  I  know  that  he  has  been  great — resisted 
greatly — -their  dominion.  And  has  he  yielded  at  last?  O, 
my  child,  forgive  me,  forgive  me  for  the  danger  that  my 
counsels  have  led  thee  into.  I  did  riot  think  him  faultless, 
as  I  told  thee;  nay,  for  he  told  thee  himself,  that  he  had 
great  faults,  which  he  would  overcome.  How  has  he 
kept  his  promise?  Let  him  answer  that. 

Farewell,  my  dear,  dear  Juliet.     Do  not  be  hasty.     I 
ive  no  more  advice.     I  have  done  recommending  any- 
ody  to  thee;  judge  for  thyself.     But  conceal  thy  senti- 
ments, even  from  me.     I  am  sore  yet,  with  my  partiali- 
ty— so  infirm  are  we  all!      But  Mr.  G's  family  are  res- 
pectable; and,  so  far  as  I  know  any  thing  of  him,  his  life 
is  irreproachable.     I  say  this,  I  hardly  know  why — is  it 
because  I  would  not  have  a  man  seen  in  the  company  of 
Juliet  R.  Grade,  who  was  not  a  man,  and  a  Christian? 
Whether  Mr.  G.  be  one  or  not,  you  can  judge,  better  than 

veport.  Farewell, 

N.  V. 


JOHN   TO   SARAH. 

Frank  has  prevailed.     We  could  not  both  fly  to  the 
sick  bed  of  our  beloved  Sarah;  and  we  have  finally  agreed 


RANDOLPH.  247 

that  he  should  be,  as  the  older,  and  more  experienced, 
the  first  to  minister  consolation  tocher  who,  henceforth, 
is  our  sister.  From  this  instant,  our  home  is  your  home, 
Sarah,  and  while  we  have  a  morsel  of  bread,  that  morsel 
is  yours.  We  mention  this  now,  because,  it  may  happen 
in  these  disastrous  times,  that  a  death  so  sudden,  as  that 
of  your  excellent  father,  may  leave  his  extensive  affairs 
in  some  disorder;  or,  at  least,  render  it  difficult  to  bring 
them  to  a  profitable  or  speedy  termination.  I  speak  now 
as  a  man  of  business.  Sudden  death,  in  the  head  of  a 
great  commercial  house,  is  little  better  than  a  bankrupt- 
cy, unless  the  property  be  under  lock  and  key.  I  pray 
you,  therefore,  my  dear  Sarah,  to  be  prepared  for  the 
worst.  Put  the  whole  management  of  the  business  into 
the  hands  of  Frank;  and  make  yourself  well  and  happy, 
as  soon  as  possible.  This  will  not  be  shown  to  you, 
till  the  agony  of  your  bereavement  is  passed;  but,  it  will 
be  shown  you,  while  the  greater  danger  is  yet  near  you; 
that  of  despondency,and  weariness  of  spirit.  I  recommend 
travelling  to  you;  Frank  will  accompany  you.  I  offer  no 
consolation.  I  pretend  not  to  the  power.  But  I  feel  for  you. 
I  have  wept  for  you;  and  I  can  only  say,  go  to  the  blessed 
Book,  which  you  have  so  often  recommended  to  me. — I  do 
not  pretend  to  speak  from  my  own  knowledge  of  its  value 
from  my  own  experience,  I  mean — I  am  shamefully  igno- 
rant of  it,  I  confess — but,  I  see  that  it  makes  the  mourner 
look  smilingly  up  to  heaven;  the  widow's  heart  beat;  and 
the  sweet  orphan  move  her  little  mouth  in  prayer; — and  1 
cannot  doubt,  that  it  is  the  best  medicine  for  the  sick  at 
heart — for  you,  my  own  dear  Sarah. — Do  not  yield  to 
the  blow.  But  you  will  not.  Your  talents  are  not  to 
lie  idle  and  darkening,  in  the  chamber  of  apathy.  No — 
you  must  be  useful  to  them  that  want  examples  among 
the  sweetest  charities  of  life — the  household  charities. 

Poor  Juliet  is  indisposed,  but  sends  her  love — will 
write  soon. 


Affectionately,  and  ever  yours, 

dear  cousin  and  sister. 


JOHN, 


248  RANDOLPH. 

FRANK    TO    JOHN. 


Salem, 


Dear  John. — 1  found  our  dear  cousin  far  gone,  indeed. 
She  was  so  aftered  that  I  scarcely  knew  her;  and,  when 
I  first  took  her  har.d,  she  did  not  seem  to  know  me;  and 
it  trembled,  as  if  there  were  something  hateful  in  the 
touch  of  mine;  hut,  after  looking  me  steadily  in  the  face, 
— her  dark  hazel  eyes,  burning  to  thsir  centre,  with 
some  "deep,  strange  thought,  for  t\vo  or  three  min- 
utes,— she  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  smiled  faintly,  shut  her 
lips— arid  the  tears  instantly  filled  her  eyes.  She  press- 
ed my  hand — and  carried  it  to  her  temples.  The  beat- 
ing was  excessive  and  fiery.  I  spoke  to  her — 1  endea- 
voured to  appear  undisturbed;  hut  she  saw  my  agitation; 
and  I  am  sure  that  she  ran  over,  in  her  thought,  all  that 
had  happened  to  both,  since  \ve  parted.  She  attempted, 
two  or  three  times,  to  speak;  but  her  heart  was  too  full,  and 
she  only  put  her  beautiful  hand  upon  her  bosom,  and 
temples,  and  shook  her  head.  After  that,  she  slept  for 
several  hours;  and  her  nurse  told  me,  with  more  compo- 
sure, than  at  any  time  since  her  illness.  She  had  been 
in  danger,  I  was  assured,  by  the  worthy,  but  very  ec- 
cen trick  old  gentleman,  \vhom  I  apprehend  to  he  a 
correspondent  of  Juliet's;  for  he  spoke  of  "Madame  Gra- 
de." You  may  be  very  sure  that  I  smiled,  at  the  whim- 
sical association  in  my  mind.  But  the  danger  is  all 
passed  now;  and,  at  our  last  conversation,  there  was 
discoverable  a  deep  and  beautiful  inwardness  of  tranquil- 
lity, that  atigurs  well.  We  have  spoken  of  Juliet;  arid 
she  desires  to  be  remembered  to  her,  with  affection  and 
gratitude;  "gratitude"  she  says,  with  emphasis,  "Juliet 
will  know  what  I  mean."  Tell  her  that  her  advice  was 
timely.  I  was  in  more  danger  than  I  dreamt  of.  But  her 
letter  and  this  shock  have  opened  my  eyes;  and  I  do 
trust,  if  it  be  permitted  to  me,  to  go  abroad  once  more, 
that  I  shall  have  the  strength  to  prove  how  I  have  been 
bettered  and  benefited  by  both.  "A  fall  matfes  one  step 
more  carefully."  she  added;  **and  every  aberration  from 
the  true  path,  is  remembered,  in  the  sick  chamber,  as  an 


RANDOLPH.  249 

irregular  pulsation  of  the  heart — something  to  be  cured 
at  once—  something  to  turn  pale  at."     Farewell.     B6 
particular  about  her,  and  believe  me,  as  I  am. 


FRANK. 


JOHN   TO    FRANK. 

I  have  been  with  Molton  every  hour,  night  and  day, 
since  you  left  us.  He  is  yet  in  a  very  critical  way;  but 
whence,  if  it  be  not  from  the  sustaining  power  of  a  well 
governed  mind,  and  a  conscience  untroubled  and  un- 
polluted, can  he  preserve  this  great  serenity,  at  such 
a  time?  I  know  not  what  to  think  of  him.  I  have  spo- 
ken of  his  past  life;  and  he  has  acknowledged  that  his 
conscience  is  not  clear;  that  there  is  a  heaviness  about 
his  heart,  and  a  darkness  upon  his  understanding,  at 
times,  from  the  recollection  of  much  evil  that  he  hath 
caused  and  done.  Yet,  he  says,  that  there  is  not  the 
weight  of  one  deliberately  cruel,  or  wicked  deed,  upon  his 
memory.  It  was  impossible  not  to  believe  him.  His 
sins  have  been  those  of  suddenness,  or  of  mistaken,  but 
generous,  imprudence.  His  passions  have  been  tremen- 
dous;— but  they  are  now,  one  would  believe,  utterly 
subjected  to  his  mastery. 

There  was  a  consultation,  last  night;  and  the  result 
would  have tt been  unknown,  had  not  Molton  demanded, 
in  a  tone  of  solemn  authority,  that  they  should  not  deceive 
him.  "How  dare  you  trifle  with  a  dying  man?"  said  he. 
"Am  I  in  a  very  perilous  situation?  Speak!  Tell  me 
.so,  like  men.  1  shall  bear  it  like  a  man.  Do  you  fear  for  the 
agitation?  You  little  know  me.  Were  you  to  tell  me  this 
moment,  that  I  should  be  a  dead  man,  when  that  hand 
points  at  twelve,  you  would  perceive  no  change  in  my 
countenance;  none  in  my  voice;  none  in  my  pulse.— 
What!  should  I  not  feel  it?  I  should.  But  the  spasm 
would  be  over,  instantly.  There  would  be  no  outward 
sign.  Do  your  duty.  Tell  me  the  truth.  What  is  my 


250  RANDOLPH. 

chance  of  life?  Have  I  one  in  ten,  one  in  a  hundred,  or 
a  thousand? — What!  no  answer!  is  my  death  so  certain, 
as  that — not  one  chance  in  a  thousand!  You  shake  your 
heads.  Speak,  will  you?  You  are  not  dealing  with  a 
child.  Tell  me  my  fate,  at  once,  and  let  me  go  to  sleep. 
I  am  weary  of  this  anxiety.  Would  you  have  me  bear 
witness  against  you,  to-morrow  or  next  day,  for  deception 
—before  God." 

They  refused  to  declare  their  opinion;  but  entreated 
him  not  to  disquiet  himself.  He  smiled;  and,  looking  at 
me,  calmly  observed,  "you  see  now  the  efficacy  of  that 
rule.  Were  I  not  accustomed  to  the  contemplation  of  death, 
his  nonsense  alone,  would  be  enough  to  jar  me  to  dissolu- 
tion. What!  am  I  such  a  simpleton,  as  not  to  know 
that,  when  doctors  and  surgeons  consult  together,  by 
their  own  consent,  the  case  must  be  extremely  critical; 
and  that,  when  a  consultation  has  once  been  held,  if 
they  have  anything  pleasant  to  communicate,  any  hope, 
any  chance,  however  small,  it  is  always  told?  No,  Mr. 
Omar, — I  know  the  truth.  The  terrible  pains  that  I 
had  felt  this  morning;  the  sudden  cessation  of  those  pains 
have  told  me  the  truth.  A  mortification  has  begun. — 
Very  well.  I  expected  it.  The  inflammation  justified  me 
in  expecting  it.  Let  them  be  as  silent  as  they  will,  were 
I  a  weaker  man  than  I  am.  it  would  be  a  dastardly  pol- 
icy. Would  not  any  patient  conclude  that  such  silence 
as  this,  was  the  doom  of  death,  most  emphatically  pro- 
nounced, by  them,  from  whom  there  is  no  appeal?  Well, 

gentlemen, since    you    are  unwilling,  to  tell  me 

that  I  am  a  dead  man,  will  you  allow  me  to  ask  you, 
how  long  it  is  possible  for  me  to  be  a  living  one?"  They 
were  earnestly  whispering  together  at  the  window. — 
The  elder  advanced,  and  took  his  hand.  "Are  you  pre- 
pared for  the  worst?"  said  he.  "Yes,  for  the  worst,"  said 
Molton.  "Will  you  submit  yourself  entirely  to  us?" — 
"Entirely.  Do  with  me  as  you  will,  while  the  breath  is 
in  me — and  then,  you  are  welcome  to  my  bones — and 
all,  but  my  heart.  That  were  a  study  that  would  terrify 
you.  Nay — on  second  thought,  I  recal  that.  You  shall 
not  have  my  body.  I  have  reasons  for  it."  The  medical 
man  shook  his  serene  old  head,  as  if  he  suspected,  that 


BANDOLPH.  25 1 

ail  was  not  right.  "We  have  concluded  to  tell  you  the 
result,"  said  he.  "There  is  yet  some  hope."  Molton's 
countenance  fell.-— What!  was  life  appalling  to  him. — 
"But  the  chance  is  small,  indeed.  We  shall  abandon  the 
hall;  but  a  very  painful  operation  is  indispensible,  or 

your  hope  is  truly  desperate." Molton  looked  him 

steadily  in  the  face.  "Spoken  like  a  man!"  said  he. 
"That  is  right.  That  is  the  way  that  wise  men  will  act, 
when  dealing  with  creatures,  about  to  appear  before  the 
judgment  seat  against  them. — Do  with  me  as  you  will." 
The  operation  was  then  performed.  It  was  frightful,  and 
he  fainted — the  blood  spun  out  of  his  breast; — his  hair 
was  wet  and  soaked  in  his  own  sweat;  yet  he  never 
breathed  a  loud  word.  He  is  better  now.  "Are  you 
willing  to  die?"  said  I.  He  was  silent-I  repeated  it.  "JVo" 
he  replied,  "JVo/-- No  man  is  willing  to  die,  if,  by  that,  you 
mean,  that  he  would  n  ot  save  himself,  if  he  could." — 
"Are  you  resigned?" — "I  do  not  understand  the  word," 
said  he,  "but  f  am  proud,  too  proud,  to  flinch — and, 
when  I  reflect  on  what  I  must  endure,  if  I  recover,  I  de- 
clare to  you,  that  I  am  more  intimidated  at  the  sudden 
thought  of  life,  than  death.  The  pain  of  death  is  noth- 
ing. I  have  suffered  more  than  that  twenty  times  over; 
nay,  I  have  been  dead,  to  all  appearances,  more  than  once. 
The  coming  to,  was  death.  It  was  like  the  rush  .of  a 
whirlwind  of  powdered  glass  into  my  lungs — my  arte- 
ries were  distended — all  the  vessels  of  my  heart  were 
ruptured;  and  I  could  have  raised  my  hands,  and  wept, 
to  be  left  alone;  but  I  had  not  the  power.  My  mind  on- 
ly moved — my  body  was  at  their  mercy;  and  they  tortu- 
red it  back  to  life.  No — I  should  be  sorry  to  die;  but,  if 
I  must  die,  there  is  no  martyr  of  them  all,  that  ever  died, 
more  self  collected,  passionless  and  undisturbed,  than 
Edward  Molton  will.  The  time  has  been,  when  death 
was  terrible  to  me.  The  career  of  ambition  was  then 
open  to  me.  The  blood  beat  into  my  heart  like  a  tide; 
and  a  mighty  spirit  arose,  self-engendered,  self-created, 
self-compounded,  in  the  uproar  and  agitation  of  its  ele- 
ments— the  fierce  alchy my  of  fire  and  blood — a  spirit, 
that  would  have  died,  with  the  harness  upon  its  back, 
though  it  died,  scaling  the  bastions  of  heaven.  Woman 


RANDOLPH. 

was  accessible  to  me  then.  I  was  born  to  love — and  be  be- 
loved. Then,  life  was  dear  to  me!  It  is  so  no  longer. 
My  ambition  is  extinct.  My  love  bas  burnt  down.  My 

heart  is  in  cinders.     JVow,  why  would  I  live? Faith, 

it  were  difficult  to  tell. — Perhaps  to  be  a  better  man — 
perhaps,  to  be  revenged  on  some,  that  have  thought  evil 
of  me;— perhaps,  to  prove  to  them,  when  their  faces  are 
in  the  dust,  and  my  foot  is  upon  their  neck,  that — I  ne- 
ver asked  more,  than  to  have  my  power  acknowledged. 
Acknowledge  it,  and  I  will  never  use  it.  Deny  it — and 
what  follows?  I  must  thunder  about  your  ears  with  the 
proof.  Behold  the  secret  of  my  disposition — the  whole 
secret  of  my  crimes." 

What  am  I  to  think  of  such  a  man?  and  then,  his  wife— 

0  Frank!  to  be  so  loved;  so  worshipped;  so  ministered 
to,  by  a  creature  like  that;  Ah,  t  should  go  distracted  at 
the  thought  of  losing  her.     By  the  way— I  must  not  for- 
get, that  the  father  is  unaccountably  kind  to  Molton, 
now — and  that  his  manner  toward    him,  is  rather  that 
of  one,  who  has  injured  another,  than  been  injured  by 
him.     His  look  too,  is  "more  in  sorrow,  than  in  anger." 

1  cannot  understand  it;  yet  so  it  is;  and  1  have  actually 
caught  the  old  man  weeping  upon  Molton's  hand,  with 
Helen  by,  her  beautiful  eyes  upturned,  in  her  idolatry 
to  her  lord's — when  I  entered  unexpectedly;  and  I  have 
paused — and  wished  that  I  had  put  off  my  shoes — for  the 
ground  that  I  trod  upon,  I  felt,  was  holy. 

O — You  are  held  pledged  to  secrecy  for  all,  that  trans- 
pired, while  you  were  present.  I  have  promised  it,  so 
that  these  reports  may  all  die  away,  now  that  the  husband 
has  gone. 

May  not  this  marriage  have  been  the  secret  that  chang- 
ed Juliet?  Mention  it  to  Sarah.  Nay,  I  have  some  no- 
tion that,  that  was  what  he  communicated  to  her,  when  I 
left  them  alone,  for  a  moment. 

I  am  afraid  of  the  consequences.  I  don't  like  this 
Grenville,  yet  he  appears  to  be  on  a  very  familiar  foot* 
ing  there;  and,  what  is  exceedingly  provoking,  although 
I  have  taken  a  great  deal  of  pains,  I  have  been  unable  to 
hear  one  word  against  him.  The  whole  world  seemed 
to  be  leagued  against  me.  I  am  very  serious;  for,  though, 


RANDOLPH.  £53 

if  she  marry  him,  I  should  most  devoutly  pray  that  he 
be  a  good  and  great  man;  yet  I  have  my  fears  of  both. — 
But  fears  are  not  enough; — if  my  brother,  my  noble 
hearted  brother  is  to  be  supplanted  by  anybody,  it  should 
be  by  a  man. — Nay,  /  should  not  be  much  pleased  by 
the  comparison.  But  what  can  she  do?  There  never 
were  such  a  set  of  children  and  gawkies,  with  their  im- 
pudent familiarity  too-— about  any  worn  an  of  sense,  since 
the  world  was  made.  I  wonder  if  they  have  the  assurance 
to  believe  that  they  understand  her  value.  The  devil 
take  them! — there  is  not  one  among  the  whole,  that  can 
fathom  her  heart,  or  her  understanding.  All  that  they 
know,  is,  that  she  is  gentle  and  sweet  tempered,  and  sings 
well;  and  that  two  or  three  fine  fellows  have  been  in  love 
with  her.  But  this  Mr.  Greenville — he  has  more  sense — 
not  much  to  be  sure,  for  he  does  not,  cannot  know  her;* 
His  compliments  are  often  direct  and  barbarous;  and,  did 
I  not  know  that  he  is  a  man  of  property*  his  pretensions 
to  it,  and  his  indirect,  ingenious  way  of  boasting  of  his 
wealth;  and  announcing  his  desire  of  obtaining  a  wife, 
would  make  me  tuck  away  my  watch  chain,  if  1  sat  near 
him.  His  fondness  too.  is  childish  at  times.  But  after 
all — I  am  obliged  to  own  that  I  think  Juliet  likes  him. — 
if  so — -persecuted  as  she  is — helpless  as  she  is,  with  Jane 
and  Matilda  about  her — her  pride  and  soreness — God 
help  her! 

Farewell. 

JOHN. 


JOHN   TO    SARAH. 

I  have  written  to  Frank,  a  long  letter,  dear  Sarah;  and 
meant  to  have  written  another  to  you;  but  I  am  really 
unable.  My  strength  is  nearly  exhausted.  I  had  no  idea 
of  it,  till  now;  but  the  loss  of  sleep,  I  find,  wears  more, 
upon  my  constitution,  than  the  loss  of  food, — or  even  than 
the  troubles  of  the  mind.  You  can  read  Frank's  letter, 
however,  and  consider  it  the  same,  as  if  w ritten  to  you; 
for  I  hardly  know  what  else  I  could  have  said;  except  to 


254  RANDOLPH. 


praise  heaven,  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  that  you 
have  escaped  a  protracted  illness;  and  to  pray  your  im- 
plicit submission  to  Frank's  guidance,  in  every  particu- 
lar, just  as  if  he  were  your  own  brother.  Oh,  yes — there 
is  yet  another  thing;  but  that  is  for  you  alone.  Keep 
your  eye  upon  Juliet.  1  have  my  fears,  that  she  is  more 
unhappy  than  she  would  seem;  that  there  is  some  deep 
grief,  praying  inwardly  upon  her,  1  am  sure.  She  de- 
ceives hersell; — she  deceives  the  world.  But  she  cannot 
deceive  me.  My  tenderness  is  too  vigilant;  a  secret  dis- 
ease is  working  at  her  heart.  You  may  guess  it;- -her 
face  is  serene,  her  manners  composed;  and  her  spirits 
never  appeared  more  truly  innocent  and  captivating; 
but,  at  times,  even  in  her  pleasantest  mood,  when  nobody 
else  saw  her,  I  have  seen  her;  all  the  festivity  of  her  eye 
vanished;  her  pale  brow  grow  still  paler;  and  her  meek 
ftps  trembled,  as  if  a  spectre  had  gone  by — visible  to  her 
eyes  only.  I  suspect  the  truth.  The  world  say  that 

«he  never  loved — till  now.     What! — can  it  be,  that 

no,  no,  1  will  not  imagine  such  blasphemy. 

Ever  thine,  dear  Co». 

JOHN. 


JULIET  TO  SAKAH. 

I  have  been  a  little  unwell,  my  dear  sister;  for  so,  I 
must  call  you,  that,  if  we  cannot  make  up  in  nearness, 
we  may  in  number,  the  relations  that  you  have  lost; — 
but  the  first  thing  that  1  have  attempted,  as  soon  as  I  am 
able  to  hold  a  pen,  is  to  write  to  you;  not,  with  the  vain 
hope  of  offering  consolation  to  a  daughter,  in  the  hour 
of  her  bereavement  and  affliction;  no,  dear  Sarah,  but  to 
weep  with  you;  to  kneel  with  you;  and  to  pray  to  Him, 
whose  mercy  endureth  forever,  that  He  will  have  com- 
passion on  the  sick  and  weary  of  heart;  "that  he  will  tem- 
per the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb,"  and  be  to  tbee,  my  sis- 


RANDOLPH.  255 

ter,  my  own  dear  sister,  what  he  hath  been  to  me,  in  my 
unworthiness,  a  present  helper  indeed — father! — mother! 
brothers  and  sisters!  O,  blessed  be  his  name.  Without 
his  indulgent,  and  sustaining  hand,  how  utterly  helpless 
were  our  situation!  two  orphans — afar  and  apart — alone, 
in  the  wide  world, — beset  with  many  dangers; — one  ex- 
posed to  the  profligate  and  sordid,  by  her  wealth;  the 
other  to — all  the  world — by  her  poverty.  Ah,  Sarah,  it 
were  difficult  to  say,  which  was  the  most  enviable  situa- 
tion: that,  where  the  purest  offerings  of  the  heart  are  lia- 
ble to  be  suspected  of  impurity;  where,  whatever  may  be 
its  disinterestedness,  passion  and  vehemence,  and  truth 
and  tenderness;  they  can  never  be  proved, — because 
the  shrine  of  its  idol  is  of  fine  gold,  and  rough  with  pre- 
cious stones: — or  that,  where  the  true  heart  is  con- 
tinually pressed,  and  pressed;  and  tortured  and  wrung, 
while  there  is  one  drop  of  life  left  within  it — by  poverty 
and  dependance.  O,  Sarah!  0,  my  sister!  how  many  a 
delicate  creature,  appointed  by  heaven  to  all  the  offices 
of  love,  and  tenderness,  on  earth — to  be  a  wife — and  a  mo- 
ther— to  some  dear,  noble  hearted  man,  and  some  sweet 
babe, — hath  been  pinioned  and  bound,  and  offered  up  in 
sacrifice — either  by  her  poverty,  her  pride,  or  her  re- 
venge. How  many  a  maiden  hath  perjured  herself; — 
how  many  a  widow  re-sold  the  desolate  tenement  of  love, 

to  the  highest  bidder Ah,  the  thought  is  too  cruel. — 

What  can  I  say  to  thee?     Nothing  but  this,  my  beloved 
sister,  nothing  but  this — to  put  thy  trust  in  heaven. 

JULIET. 


EDWARD    MOLTON   TO   THE   REV.    CHARLES    ASHTOX.     , 

Your  letter,  sir,  returning  mine,  was  received,  when  I 
was  unable  to  reply.  I  made  you  some  promises  in  that, 
which,  had  you  acted  prudently,  or  with  the  good  sense, 
to  he  expected  from  a  man  of  your  age.  and  profession, 
you  would  have  opened,  after  having  invited  the  wires- 


256  11ANDOLPH. 

pondence;— and  which.  (I  speak  of  those  promises,)  I  has- 
ten to  fulfil,  notwithstanding  the  insult  that  you  have  offer- 
ed me.  My  letter,  I  shall  keep  by  me,  with  the  seal  un- 
broken. We  may  chance  to  meet  again,  here;— ^or, 
perhaps,  in  heaven;  and,  if  it  be  permitted  to  me,  I  will 
then  break  the  seal  in  your  presence,  and  convict  you  of 
what  I  have  just  charged  you  with.  I  pity  you.  And 
here  our  correspondence  must  close.  I  only  write  now — - 
because  I  promised  to  make  some  remarks  upon  Mr. 
Laney's  book.  I  have  performed  my  engagement;  and 
written  them  in  a  sick  chamber. 

They  follow,  precisely  as  if  nothing  had  happened  be- 
tween us.  I  let  no  such  things  disturb  me.  I  have  been 
too  much  accustomed  to  them.  You  are  not  the  first  man, 
nor  the  first  clergyman,  that  I  have  been  deceived  by; — 
no,  nor  the-  first,  whom  I  have  found  a  cold,  calculating, 
shrewd  man;  who,  if  his  heart  were  ever  surprised  into 
any  one  generous  emotion,  made  haste  to  atone  for  it^by 
acting,  as  if  he  had  no  heart  at  all.  I  will  tell  you  of  one 
instance.  There  was  a  man  of  this  character  once,  who 
had  some  notion,  perhaps,  that  I  could  be  of  use  to 
him.  He  was  electioneering  then  for  a  benefice.  He 
went  to  a/riewdof  mine — a  man  that  was  my  friend,  and 
is  yet — and  will  be,  to  iny  dying  day — who  had  known  me 
long  enough,  not  to  shut  his  eyes  to  the  light — though 
that  light  were  brought  to  him,  in  my  hands;~a  gentle- 
man too,  who  has  not  the  courage  to  insult  a  brave  man, 
when  he  knows  that  Ms  gown  is  a  greater  shelter  to  him, 
than  cowardice  or  womanhood.  'He  asked  my  friend  for 
a  letter  to  me.  It  was  given,  with  evident  reluctance? 
(for  the  applicant  was  a  stranger*,  to  Mm,)  and  with  these 
remarks,  "I  will  give  it  to  you,  sir.  Bnt  you  must  expect 
no  dinner — no  wine; — he  is  too  poor  for  either — no  po- 
pularity, for  he  is  unpopular."  Yet  the  man  had  the  in- 
delicacy to  take  the  letter,  notwithstanding — a  letter  that 
was  only — not  refused.  He  came  to  the  town,  where  I 
was;  and,  when  he  found  that,  what  he  had  heard  from 
my  friend,  was  true— his  heart  failed  him.  He  had  the 
meanness  to  keep  it  a  secret  from  his  own  intimate  friend, 
tbat  he  bad  a  letter  of  introduction  to  me.  He  was 


RANDOLPH.  257 

ashamed  to  own  it.     Would  he  have  owned,  to  his  Ma 
ker,  think  you,  if  he  could  have  helped  it,   that  the  same 
letter  was  obtained  by  his  own  importunity.     No— yet  such 
was  the  fact. 

i  heard  of  his  arrival.     I  expected   to  see  him.     On, 
week — ten  days — two  weeks  passed  over  my  head — still 
he  came  not.     I  saw  an  intimate  friend   of  his.     "Mr. 

8 ,"  said  he,  "has  a  "letter  for  you,  he  tells  me,  from 

Mr.  P "  he "Ah"— said  I— "a  letter  of  intro- 
duction, I  suppose."  "A  letter  of  introduction!"  said 
this  most  courteous  gentleman,  with  a  manner  for  which 
he  deserved  to  have  his  teeth  knocked  down  his  throat; 
a  favour  that  I  should  assuredly  have  done  him,  on  the  spot, 
had  I  not  known  enough  of  the  man,  to  believe  that  he  ex- 
pressed no  more  surprise,  than  he  honestly  felt,  at  my 
having  presumed  such  a  thing — what!  a  letter  of  intro- 
duction to  me! — borne  by  Mr.  8 /  The  thing  was 

quite  too  ridiculous! 

I  was  sensitive  then.  Poverty  makes  most  men  hum- 
ble. It  makes  me  proud.  I  scorned  to  tell  the  creature 
the  truth; — that  the  letter  was  an  introduction,  and  a  so- 
licited one  too. 

fc  "Tell  your  friend,  sir,"  said  I,  "to  put  the  letter  into  the 
Post  Office." 

A  few  days  after,  I  received  it.  I  have  it  yet.  Had 
it  been  presented  to  me  by  any  gentleman,  in  the  situation 
of  the  man,  of  whom  I  speak,  I  should  have  said,  "sir," 
I  thank  you  for  your  visit.  I  shall  not  return  it.  But 
do  not  consider  that  as  any  mark  of  disrespect.  At  pres- 
ent, my  acquaintance  would  not  be  creditable  to  you.  I 
shall,  therefore,  not  return  your  visit;  but  come  and  sec 
me,  when  you  can.  Hereafter  it  will  be  diiferent.  The  time 
is  coming,  when  no  man  shall  be  ashamed  of  me,  or  of  my 
company.  I  shall  treat  you  as  well  as  I  am  able,  till 
we  know  each  other.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  dine  with  mo 
— because  the  people  where  I  board;  and,  to  whom  I  pay 
my  board,  too,  may  have  to  pawn  a  ragged  pocket-hand- 
kerchief (which  they  did  one  day)  to  buy  bread  for  us; 
and  I  never  drink  wine."  This  I  would  have  said.  But 
he  gave  me  no  opportunity. 


258  JttANDOlPH. 

I  felt  no  little  bitterness  toward  him,  at  first; — but 
that  has  now  passed  away,  and  I  forgive  him.  He  did 
unwisely; — a  little  knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  must 
have  let  him  into  the  secret;  that,  when  it  is  sore  with 
the  jarring  of  the  world — quivering — cold  and  alone — 
a  gentle  hand  will  not  approach  it  carelessly,  lest,  even 
the  well-meant  office  of  kindness,  may  be  misinterpret- 
ed for  rudeness.  Still  less  will  it,  when  that  heart  is  in 
flower,  for  the  first  time  in  its  solitude*  for  many  years, 
will  it  send  a  bitter  and  deliberate  blast  upon  it.  There 
was  a  time,  when  I  would  have  horse-whipped  the  man, 
whatever  were  the  colour  of  his  coat,  who  did  that  thing. 
And  even  since,  so  little  of  that  forbearance,  which  I 
have  wow,  had  I  then,  that  I  deliberately  told  the  story, 
among  them  that  knew  him;  they  did  not  appear  surpri- 
sed; they  had  never  suspected  him  of  a  heart — they  knew 
that  he  was  full  of  worldly  wisdom,  and  intrigue — pru- 
dent electioneering  intrigue,  at  the  time; — and  I  meant, 
if  I  ever  met  him  in  company,  that  would  be  wise  enough 
to  listen,  and  remember,  and  not  interfere,  to  tell  him 
the  story  to  his  teeth.  But  that  thought,  I  have  aban- 
doned. An  angel  won  me  from  it.  She  smiled  upon  me; 
and  the  sacrifice,  almost  the  first,  yea,  it  was  the  first, 
of  a  purpose  so  solemnly  resolved,  was  made — .  I  for- 
gave him — for  her  sake. 

I  have  now  done,  Mr.  Harrow.  Do  you  see  the  pa- 
rallel? Had  you  read  my  letter,  sir,  you  would  have 
found  a  gentler  spirit,  it  may  be,  than  you  expected;  and, 
had  you  continued  to  think  well  of  me,  till  my  own  lips 
condemned  me,  I  could  have  convinced  you,  that  all  which 
you  have  lately  heard,  might  be  true;  and  yet,  that  I  was 
not  very  guilty.  Has  your  charity  never  imagined  such 
a  possibility?  I  only  suggest  it.  I  leave  it  to  your 
meditation.  I  scorn  to  win  any  such  heart  back  to  me. 
Were  you  young,  I  should  smile  at  your  rashness,  and 
forgive  it;  but  one  so  old,  so  seemingly  generous,  so  much 
above  other  men,  in  the  calm  of  philosophy— I  have  no 
hope  of  such  a  man,  when  he  acts  like  a  boy.  I  do  not 
respect  you  as  I  did.  I  no  longer  value  your  good  opinion, 
as  1  have. 


RANDOLPH.  259 

The  following  remarks  are  for  your  eyes,  and  for  Mr. 
Lancy's,  Whether  you  ever  see  them,  1  care  little,  now. 
There  was  a  time,  when  1  would  have  written  them  over, 
for  your  eyes,  alone;  as  I  would,  for  those  of  my  own  fa- 
ther. But  you  are  all  alike,  old  and  young — mere  men; 
fuller  of  infirmity  and  blindness,  as  you  verge  upon  the 
tremendous  threshold  of  darkness  and  eternity.  Do  not 
misunderstand  me.  I  have  written  them,  only  in  obedi- 
ence to  my  promise.  It  is  no  longer  a  pleasure  for  me,  to 
write  for  your  eyes. 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  follow  the  author  in  the  order  of 
his  reasoning;  but,  I  will  examine  what  he,  and  many 
others  have  said,  upon  the  same  subject,  just  as  their 
several  theories  may  happen  to  present  themselves  to  my 
mind.  The  question  is  this:  reduced  to  its  elements. 
Whence  is  the  pleasure,  that  we  derive  from  the  exhibition 
of  tragedies? — the  narration  of  murders?-- -the  representa- 
tion of  battles,  in  painting  and  poetry? — the  sight  of  blood- 
shed and  horrour?  Is  it  pleasure?  If  not,  why  do  we 
seek  it  with  such  avidity?  All  agree,  that  it  is  pleasure. 

One  man  will  tell  you,  that  our  pleasure  is  derived 
from  a  comparison  of  our  circumstances,  with  those  of 
the  sufferer.  He  will  say,  "it  is  not  sympathy,  but  self- 
ishness." „, 

Is  that  true?  If  it  were,  this  pleasure  would  increase,  as 
that  difference  became  more  striking  and  evident.  I 
am  in  my  house,  by  a  warm  fire,  where  I  can  hear  the 
storm  beat  upon  my  roof,  and  the  beach  roar.  I  feel 
pleasure.  The  sense  of  security  is  delightful.  But  if 
my  pleasurea  rise  from  that  sense  of  security; — if  it  be 
the  result  of  a  comparison  between  my  situation,  and 
that  of  those,  who  are  exposed  to  the  storm,  the  peasant, 
or  the  mariner,  then  would  it  augment,  in  proportion  as 
I  saw  that  exposure  encreased.  Of  course,  if  the  skies 
thundered  all  around  me,  while  I  stood  safe;  and  all  the 
winds,  and  all  the  waters  raged;  and  I  could  see  the  ap- 
parition of  ships,  drifting  in  the  hurricane,  while  my 
own  dwelling  stood  unshaken,  I  should  be  the  happier. 
Nay,  let  a  ship  drive  upon  the  breakers,  at  my  feet.  Let 
rae  look  out  in  safety,  from  the  illuminated  window  of 


260  RANDOLPH. 

my  strong  cottage,  upon  the  miserable,  drowning  crea- 
tures, below;  as  the  difference  between  their  situation 
and  mine,  is  the  cause  of  my  pleasure,  that  pleasure 
would  then  be  at  its  height.  But  it  is  not.  It  is  not 
selfishness,  then.  It  is  not  a  sense  of  security.  It  is  not 
a  comparison  of  situations. 

"it  is  gratitude  to  heaven!"  another  will  say;  "gratitude 
for  being  sheltered  and  sustained,  while  others  wander, 
unsupported,  in  the  iron  tempest,  over  the  unsteady  wa- 
ters." But  no,  it  is  not  gratitude.  For,  if  it  were  grat- 
itude; and  that  gratitude  arose  as  it  must  have  arisen, 
from  comparison — then,  our  pleasure  must  have  been 
greatest,  when  the  difference  between  our  situation,  and 
that  of  the  sufferers,  (or  any  sufferer,)  was  the  greatest; 
for,  then  would  our  gratitude  be  at  its  height,  together 
with  its  cause.  No,  it  does  not  arise  from  gratitude, 
for  the  very  reason  that  it  does  not  arise  from  compa- 
rison, and  a  sense  of  the  difference  in  our  situation?. 

"It  is  your  consciousness  of  security;"  repeats  another. 
Is  this  true?  I  stand  at  my  window,  and  listen  to  the 
skies,  while  they  roll  over  my  head,  in  thunder.  The  earth 
rocks  under  my  feet.  The  lightnings  of  heaven  blaze 
upon  the  ocean;  I  see  it  all  white  with  foam,  and  the 
clouds  in  its  bosom.  Ami  more  secure  now,  than  when 
the  skies  were  blue,  and  clear;  the  ocean  in  a  sweet  sleep; 
and  my  dwelling  in  safety? 

Beside — at  this  moment  of  peril,  I  see  a  fellow  crea- 
ture, ready  to  perish;  he  is  upon  the  very  brink  of  the 
precipice — or  weltering,  and  blinded,  upon  the  surge. — 
J  climb  the  precipice — I  leap  into  the  breakers — I  save 
him.  If  my  pleasure  were  only  the  sense  of  security, 
why  did  I  relinquish  it,  so  foolishly?— my  security  grew 
less  and  less,  at  every  step.  Yet,  I  persisted.  It  was  not 
my  sense  of  security,*  then.  As  little,  was  it  selfishness; 
for  that  would  have  withheld  me  from  the  peril  of  hu- 
manity. Nor,  was  it  the  difference,  discovered  by  a  com- 
parison of  situations;  for  had  it  been,  I  acted  most  un- 
wisely, by  diminishing  that  difference,  as  I  did,  in  ex- 
posing my  life;  and,  had  it  been  that,  my  pleasure  would 
have  diminished,  with  the  difference. 


RANDOLPH.  261 

"But  it  is  your  sense  of  danger,  that  thrills  you;"  says 
a  third;  "and  the  emotion  is  pleasurable."  Impossible; 
for  if  it  were  so,  there  would  be  no  cowards.  We  should 
seek  danger  with  more  care,  than  we  now  avoid  it.  Bat- 
tle would  be  no  longer  terrible  to  any  man. 

But  what  is  it,  then,  that  gives  us  the  deep  and  beau- 
tiful emotion,  that  we  experience  at  such  a  season  of  peril? 
It  is  not,  that  we  are  pleased  to  be  in  danger;  but,  that  a 
sense  of  danger  wakens  our  spirits  and  faculties;  puts  us 
to  thinking  of  our  dependence,  and  of  God's  power.  In 
a  calm,  blue  day,  we  feel  a  sleepiness  in  our  serenity. 
We  do  not  so  much  feel,  as  breathe.  We  are  not  con- 
scious of  safety,  till  in  danger.  So,  we  think  nothing  of 
health,  till  it  is  about  to  depart  from  us.  Do  we  love 
sickness,  because  our  eyes  are  brighter  in  sickness? 
No — but  we  have  learnt  to  value  health,  because  we  have 
but  little  left.  So,  we  love  safety,  in  proportion  as  it  is 
diminished.  The  storm  comes  up,  while  we  are  reposing, 
half  asleep,  under  the  trees.  Till  there  was  danger, 
there  was  no  safety  to  us;  for  we  saw  it  not,  felt  it  not. 
It  is,  therefore,  the  sense  of  security,  which  is  one  ingre- 
dient, in  the  beautifully  compound  feeling  that  we  have 
at  such  a  moment. 

But,  as  that  feeling  of  security  diminishes,  and  the 
danger  becomes  more  alarming,  we  are  troubled,  and 
terrified.  The  mind  is  frightened  from  her  contempla- 
tion. The  spirit's  devout  breathing  of  gratitude,  is  fol- 
lowed by  supplication.  She  is  terrified  from  her  devo- 
tion. 

That  we  are  pleased  with  a  degree  of  danger,  is  cer- 
tain. There  is  something  warlike  and  agitating  in  what 
is  dangerous:  hence  athletick  sports,  racing,  hunting, 
fencing — tilt  and  tournament.  But  the  moment,  when  that 
peril  is  so  great,  as  to  prevent  our  faculties  from  moving 
loftily; — the  moment  that  the  activity  of  thought  is  pal- 
sied; the  lights  of  the  imagination  dimmed,  by  the  near- 
ness of  the  peril,  or  its  magnitude,  that  moment  our 
pleasure  ceases.  Danger  is  pleasant,  just  exactly  to  that 
point,  and  no  further,  where  the  chief  play  of  the  mind 
is  produced. — or  rather,  the  most  intense  excitement  of 
Y2 


262  RANDOLPH. 

some  one  faculty,  without  the  prostration  of  the  rest?  and 
this  will  be  endured  to  an  inconceivahle  extent,  where 
we  know  that  it  is  in  our  own  power  to  withdraw,  when* 
we  please,  from  the  danger. 

Another  fact,  somewhat  mysterious  at  first,  but  found 
in  analogy,  with  the  commonest  operation  of  the  mind, 
is  this; — that,  in  proportion  as  the  quantity  of  our  safety 
decreases,  the  value  encreases.  Diminish  the  quantity, 
and  the  quality  improves.  Our  health  is  another  ex- 
ample. Riches  may  be  another.  Few  men  will  part  from 
their  last  dollar.  But  many  risk  their  last  thousands 
every  hour;  and  part,  without  emotion,  from  many  thous- 
ands. 

We  feel  sensible  of  our  security,  and  of  its  value,  on- 
ly when  about  to  lose  it.  I  have  a  friend,  a  wife  or 
child,  no  matter  which;  but  the  blessing  is  inestimable. 
I  say  this.  I  feel  it.  Yet — touch  that  friend  with  sick- 
ness. Let  death  approach  that  \\ife.  Let  pestilence 
breathe  upon  the  mouth  of  my  babe.  With  what  distract- 
ing tenderness,  I  now  doat  upon  it.  How  different  are 
my  feelings!  We  only  feel  the  chord  that  is  tugged  at. 
Were  my  pleasure  the  growth  of  security,  I  should  be 
more  an  d  more  miserable  as  that  security  diminished. 
But  I  am  out;  and  when  all  that  is  so  dear  to  me  is  in  delicate 
health,  I  love  her  but  the  more  tenderly  for  it.  Were 
this  not  an  appointment  of  heaven, — in  its  affection,  the 
sick  bed  would  be  deserted — the  chamber  of  sorrow 
would  become  a  hermitage; — the  desolate  and  bereaved 
would  be  left — abandoned  and  alone. 

Thus  far,  I  have  spoken  of  many  theories,  advocated 
by  Hume,  the  Abbe  du  Bos,  Fontinelle,  Campbell,  &c. 
without  distinguishing  them;  but  I  may  now  be  more 
particular,  for  a  time. 

The  Abbe  du  Bos  contends,  that  such  pleasures  are 
sought,  like  gambling,  to  awaken  us  from  ennui.  It  mat- 
ters not  what  the  emotion  be,  says  he? — the  stronger  it 
is,  the  better.  The  more  afflicting  and  disagreeable  cer- 
tain spectacles  may  he,  in  themselves,  the  more  accepta- 
ble they  are,  because  more  efficient  in  relieving  the  soul 
from  that  oppressi on,  which  is  so  insupportable  to  its  en- 
ergies. But  this,  I  believe,  is  hardly  true.  Beyond  a 


KANDCXLPH.  263 

certain  point,  such  excitement  becomes  painful;  and  is 
avoided  by  the  most  diseased  appetite.  What  woman, 
though  half  dead  with  the  vapours,  could  see  a  man  bro- 
ken, alive,  upon  the  wheel;  or  even  an  amputation  per- 
formed, with  pleasure? 

FontinelJe  says,  that  pleasure  and  pain  differ  not  much 
in  their  cause.  Pleasure,  pushed  too  far,  becomes  pain. 
Pain,  a  little  moderated,  becomes  pleasure.  Take  the 
example  of  tickling.  Thus,  too,  there  is  a  soft  and 
agreeable  sorrow,  which  is  only  pain  diluted.  But,  can 
this  be  true?  Says  another — a  cramp  is  painful;  at  what 
time  does  it  become  agreeable?  A  great  disappointment 
disturbs  and  grieves  us — yet,  who  is  pleased  with  a  slight 
one?  A  great  insult  enrages  us — at  what  time  is  an  in- 
sult agreeable? 

Hume  subverts  the  doctrine,  while  endeavouring  to  up- 
hold it.  He  maintains,  that  our  pleasure,  at  the  repre- 
sentation of  a  tragedy,  arises  out  of  the  aggravation  of 
natural  misery,  which  we  see.  But,  if  this  were  true, 
the  most  extravagant  caricatures  of  misery,  would  be 
most  delightful  to  us;— and,  if  it  be  the  art  of  the  poet,  I 
would  ask  what  pleasure  we  can  receive,  when  that  art 
is  visible;  and  our  pleasure  arises  from  the  aggravation 
of  certain  sufferings?  If  we  see  that  they  are  aggrava- 
vated,  are  we  not  angry  at  the  trick; — and  if  we  do  not, 
how  know  we,  that  exaggeration  is  the  cause  of  our 
pleasure? 

Doctor  Campbell  follows  them  all;  and,  at  last,  gives 
his  own,  which  makes  the  pleasure  in  question  to  consist 
in  a  certain  self-complacency  that  we  feel,  in  finding  our- 
selves so  kind  hearted; — next,  a  beautiful  compound, 

which  is  somewhat  unintelligible  to  me;  and  then but 

I  have  somewhat  to  say  of  my  own  notions,  on  the  sub- 
ject; and  will  leave  Dr.  Campbell  to  the  author. 

We  are  more  interested  in  terrilick  and  calamitous 
events,  because  of  their  unfrequency;  and  because  they  ex- 
cite a  livelier  and  more  vehement  sensibility.  The  scene- 
ry of  a  tragedy,  if  warlike  and  turbulent,  is  the  same. — 
It  has  less  the  air  of  vulgar  life,  too.  And  sorrow  im- 
presses itself  more  durably  upon  the  heart  than  joy. — 
Sorrow  leads  us  to  contemplation;  suffering,  and  the  as- 


264  RANDOLPH. 

pect  of  suffering,  to  retirement,  where  its  visage  sinks  in- 
to our  heart.  But  joy  leads  us  abroad — and  we  forget 
it.  We  laugh  at  farces,  and  forget  them.  We  weep  at 
tragedies;  and  our  memory  never  lets  go  its  hold  upon 
them. 

Beside,  pleasant  skies,  good  health,  perfect  security, 
the  drama  of  common  life,  excite  no  reflection;  or,  if  any, 
reflections  that  are  unfavourable  to  enjoyment.  We  see 
others  happy;  and  it  often  obtrudes  our  own  sorrow  upon 
us,  with  more  force; — others,  in  health,  and  strength,  and 
beauty,  and  we  feel  doubly  unhappy,  in  our  weakness 
and  deformity,  as  something  marked  out  for  the  peculiar 
displeasure  of  heaven.  Not  so,  at  exhibitions  of  another 
character;  then,  we  run,  with  avidity,  over  what  we  have 
to  be  thankful  for,  and  delight  in  displaying  it.  In  the 
former  case,  envy  and  discontent,  are  often  awakened; 
in  the  latter,  gratitude  and  submission. 

At  tragedies,  the  sickness  and  deformities  of  another, 
remind  us  of  our  own  good  health,  or  person.  The  mind 
delights  in  finding  and  imagining  parallels. 

Thus,  bright  skies,  and  pleasant  scenery,  excite  pain- 
ful ena-otions.  Stormy  skies,  and  the  face  of  calamity, 
excite  pleasurable  emotions.  The  latter  are  remember- 
ed longest,  and,  consequently,  give  most  pleasure. 

And  the  sum  of  my  whole  theory,  is  this.  Whatever 
gives  a  brisker  circulation  to  the  animal  spirits;  or,  to 
the  intellectual  spirits,  without  agitating  the  mind  so 
much,  that  it  cannot  think,  is  pleasurable;  be  it  danger, 
storm  and  darkness,  or  tragedy.  It  must  have  the  facul- 
ty of  exciting  reflection,  without  disturbing  us.  We 
must  be  sufficiently  a\vake  to  compare,  without  being 
terrified  by  the  conclusion.  And  the  simple  definition 
that  I  would  give,  is  this — the  pleasure  that  we  experi- 
ence, is  only  a  hurry  of  feeling.  It  is  derived  from  the 
disposition  that  we  have,  in  common  with  race  horses,  to 
keep  up  with  whatever  we  see;  and  outrun  all  that  we 
can! 

And,  whatever  excites  the  mind  to  the  greatest  activity, 
without  overwhelming  it,  is  the  most  pleasurable  to  it, 
for  a  time.  But,  beware  how  you  overwork  it,  by  repe- 
tition, or  continuity.  The  faculties,  physical  and  intel* 


RANDOLPH.  265 

lectual,  hold  too  intimate  a  dependance,  for  either  to  be 
trifled  with.  If  you  will  preserve  the  freshness  of  sen- 
sation, the  tone  of  the  instrument,  you  must  keep  the 
chords  and  nerves  in  gentle  but  continual  exercise. 

I  ought  not  to  forget,  however,  that  there  is  a  pleasure 
in  seeing  theatrical  representations,  totally  apart  from 
this.  What  is  naturally  disagreeable,  and  even  dis- 
gusting, in  itself,  may  become  beautiful,  exactly  in  pro- 
portion as  it  is  naturally  represented.  Morland's  hogs, 
for  example,  wallowing  in  filth.  So,  too,  a  murder  up- 
on the  stage  may  gratify  us,  in  proportion  to  its  faith- 
fulness, which,  if  perpetrated  before  our  eyes,  in  reality, 
would  drive  us  distracted. 

Our  pleasure,  in  these  cases,  it  will  be  perceived, 
grows  out  of  admiration  and  love  for  human  talent,  and 
the  faculty  of  imitation; — and  has  nothing  to  do  with  a 
wicked  or  corrupt  heart,  or  beastly  imagination. 

I  have  now  done,  Mr.  Ashton;  but,  as  we  are  probably 
about  to  part,  forever,  I  cannot  say  farewell — no,  f  can- 
not, in  the  spirit  with  which  I  began.  I  am  near  my 
grave.  You,  perhaps,  are  near  yours;  for  you  are  an 
old  man,  Mr.  Ashton,  and  cannot  be  long  for  this  world. 
We  may  meet,  sooner  than  we  expect.  What  shall  I 
say  to  you,  then?  This,  and  this  only.  "Man!  I  was 
worthy  of  your  good  opinion — here  is  my  heart — read — 
there  is  my  judge — do  I  tremble?"  No,  Mr.  Ashton — I 
would  not  tremble,  not  before  my  Maker,  in  aught  that 
relates  to  you.  You  have  nothing  to  complain  of.  But 
why  need  I  say  this?  It  will  all  appear  there.  The  sins 
that  I  have  done — they  are  in  his  book.  He  will  do  just- 
ly with  me;  and  I  shall  prostrate  myself,  that  he  may. — 
But,  in  that  book,  there  will  be  found  no  sin  against  you. 
However,  we  are  about  to  part.  I  feel  no  animosity,  or 
but  little,  toward  you.  I  am  not  sorry  that  you  return- 
ed the  letter,  as  you  did,  unopened.  It  has  left  the  fame 
of  one,  that  is  yet  dear  to  me,  in  my  keeping;  and  there 
it  shall  be,  until  this  heart  be  dust  and  ashes.  But,  why 
did  you  return  my  offering  so  unkindly?  Could  you  not 
bear  to  be  loved  by  me?  I  had  no  father — none; — nought 
but  a  poor,  desolate  mother?  I  went  to  you,  with  my 


366  RANDOLPH. 

heart,  naked*  in  my  hand — you  put  it  back.  Was  it  wise? 
Is  it  wise  to  turn  such  fountains  as  gush  here,  into  foun- 
tains of  bitterness?  It  is  not.  Old  man,  you  have  sin- 
ned. You  have  shaken  my  reverence  for  age.  Yet,  I 
could  have  forgiven  it.  I  could  have  remembered  our 
common  infirmities — your  liability  to  imposition — the 
generosity  of  your  nature.  Yes,  I  could  have  appealed 
to  that — I  could — but  I  scorned  to  do  so.  No! — you  had 
doubted  me,  insulted  me,  and  cast  me  off,  when  my  vin- 
dication was  in  your  hand.  Yet — sir,  I/orgive  you. — 
Farewell,  forever. 

ED.   MOLTOX. 

Rev.  Mr.  Ashton,  London,  Eng. 


CHARLES  GRENVILLE  TO  HIS  MOTHER. 

My  beloved  mother 

After  all  my  wandering  and  trial;  after  so  many  vi- 
cissitudes and  disappointments;  so  many  changes  in  my- 
self, and  so  much  caprice  in  others,  I  have  at  last,  I  think, 
a  prospect  of  being  happy.  Yes,  mother,  I  have,  at  last, 
found  the  woman,  whom,  I  believe,  fitted  by  heaven,  for 
my  happiness.  My  feelings  are  serious  and  devout.  The 
hey-day  of  my  boyhood  is  past;  and  I  have  learnt  to  dis- 
trust and  tremble  at 'those  sudden  prepossessions  and 
prejudices,  which,  once,  were  well  nigh  shaking  my  rea- 
son to  the  centre.  I  have  found  the  woman,  at  last,  that 
J  can  love  and  reverence.  One,  I  had  seen,  before,  whom 
I  could  have  loved,  and  did  love,  as  you  know;  but  oh, 
she  would  not  permit  me  to  respect  her;  she  would  not 
permit  that  I  should  enshrine  her,  and  sanctify  the  place 
of  her  dwelling,  as  a  spot  unapproachable  to  aught  of 

sensuality  or  corruption. 1  found  another,  however, 

heaven  forever  bless  her,  for  her  goodness!  whom  I  believ- 
ed to  contain  within  her  bosom,  the  noblest  principles, 
the  most  generous  sentiments,  the  most  devoted  and  sub- 
lime affection — I  waited,  only  till  her  heart  were  in  blos- 
som, and  fruitage,  to  offer  her  mine.  But  the  vine  was 


RANDOLPH.  267 

not  for  me.  Others,  have  I  seen,  two  others,  who  were 
lovely  and  estimable  women;  but  I  had  not  the  courage  to 
think  of  either,  as  my  wife,  as  the  head  of  my  table; — or, 
as  the  mother  of  my  children.  They  had  no  experience, 
none;  and  I  would  not  trust,  unthinking  as  I  am,  the 
everlasting  happiness  of  my  babes,  to  them,  whose  ex- 
perience went  scarcely  so  far,  as  the  fashioning  of  a  cap,  or 
the  plaiting  of  a  ruffle.  But,  there  was  one — one,  about 
whom,  you  felt  so  sensible  an  alarm,  when  we  were  last 
together,  whom  I  could  have  borne  to  think  of,  in  that 
solemn  and  sublime  capacity — a  wife  and  a  mother. — • 
She  was  trained  to  the  office.  The  large  family,  so  long 
subjected  to  her  watchfulness;  her  character,  its  impres- 
sive seriousness;  her  sincerity,  as  manifested  in  her  ad- 
vice to  me; — all  these  things  were  of  weight;  and  though 
my  situation  and  honour  forbade  me  to  think  of  her  then, 
in  any  other  light,  than  that  of  a  friend;  yet,  since  then, 
and  often  since  her  marriage,  have  I  thought  of  her,  as 
better  fitted  for  my  happiness,  than  any  other  woman, 
whom  I  ever  met. 

But,  I  have  found  another;  and,  as  I  cannot  bear  that 
an  emotion  of  my  heart  should  be  unknown  to  the  most 
excellent  of  mothers,  and  the  kindest  of  sisters,  I  have 
thought  fit,  thus  early,  to  apprise  you,  that  I  have  now 
found  the  woman,  whom,  if  I' can  marry,  I  will. 

Do  not  charge  me  with  precipitation.  It  is  true,  that 
I  have  not  known  her  long;  and  have  no  surety  that  my 
suit  will  be  acceptable;  but,  I  have  long  known  her  char- 
acter; and  long,  long  since,  met  her,  under  circumstan- 
ces, that  can  never  be  effaced  from  my  remembrance, 
which  established  the  goodness  of  her  temper.  Her  dis- 
position is  what  it  should  be;  gentle,  and  patient,  perhaps, 
beyond  example;  certainly,  beyond  any  example,  within 
the  reach  of  my  experience.  But,  contrary  to  the  gene- 
ral rule,  she  does  not  want  for  spirit;  and  her  talent  is  of 
the  highest  order.  There  is  no  pretension  about  her;  but, 
I  am  justified  in  saying,  that,  in  some  matters,  she  has  no 
rival.  Her  family  are  unexceptionable;  or  rather,  were 
so;  for,  she  is  an  orphan,  and  is  now  left  upon  the  charity 
of  some  distant  relatives.  This  state  of  dependence,  is 


268  KANDOLPH. 

galling  to  her,  I  am  sure;  for  it  must  be,  to  every  gene- 
rous mind.  Yet,  she  is  discreet  enough  to  he  cautious, 
in  leaving  it,  for  one,  from  which  there  is  no  escape,  but 
by  death.  She  has  had  many  offers,  and  some,  that  few 
would  have  had  the  wisdom  to  reject. 

My  temper  has  undergone  a  radical  improvement  since 
I  have  known  her.  It  is  only  a  few  months,  to  be  sure; 
and  there  is  something  not  a  little  ridiculous,  I  confess, 
in  ascribing  such  an  effect,  to  the  influence  of  a  young 
girl,  upon  a  man  of  my  settled  habit;  yet,  it  is  the  simple 
truth.  She  has  done  more  toward  effecting  a  reforma- 
tion in  me,  in  several  points,  within  this  short  time,  than 
all  the  admonition,  and  all  the  entreaty  of  them,  that  I 
most  love,  continued,  without  intermission,  for  many 
years.  Judge  of  her  influence,  then.  If  you  were  to  see 
her,  you  would  love  her.  "Her  name!  her  name!"  I  hear 
you  ask;  by  you  there,  I  mean  Anne;  for  I  can  see  her 
blue  eyes  laughing  brightly  over  the  page,  and  her  red 
lips  parting  impatiently,  to  practice  the  name  of  her  in- 
tended sister.  Well,  her  name  is  Juliet  R.  Oracle.  "Is 
she  rich?v  No— not  worth  a  dollar,  thank  heaven.  "Is 
she  handsome?"  No.  "Smart?"  No.  "Fashionable?" 
No.  "Of  high  family?"  No.  "Then,  what  is  she?"  I'll 
tell  you,  Anne,  if  you  will  only  listen  to  me9  a  moment. 
She  is  modest  and  sensibe; — pure  of  heart,  and  gifted 
with  a  beautiful  spirit.  She  has  genius,  and  true  natural 
sensibility,  gushing  out  for  the  real,  not  the  imaginary 
affliction  of  life; — she  has  patience,  that  sweet  tranquil- 
ising  spirit,  which  makes  martyrdom  contagious.  She 
has  an  affectionate  disposition;  fine,  intelligent  eyes,  bash- 
ful as  love,  and  instinct  with  the  subdued  expression  of 
a  passionate,  deep,  and  settled  spirit,  darkening  to  their 
very  centre,  with  the  secret  of  her  bosom;  sweet  lips,  full 
of  wisdom  and  gentleness;  a  countenance,  where  there  is 
nothing  to  strike  you,  nothing  to  dazzle,  nothing  to  in- 
toxicate, or  astonish;  but  every  thing  to  love,  for  it  is  in- 
nocent and  lofty.  Her  person  is  excellent,  without 
being  showy.  It  is,  like  her  faculties,  good,  but  unfitted 
for  display, — withal,  however,  so  delicate,  that  J  trem- 
ble for  her.  Her  constitution  may  not  be  broken;  but  the 


RANDOLPH.  £69 

tincture  of  health  is  uncommonly  variable,  upon  her 
cheek;  and  the  paleness  upon  her  forehead,  too,  alarms 
me. 

Her  fortitude — would  that  I  could  speak  of  it,  as  it  de- 
serves!— but  I  cannot.  Of  her  sincerity,  that  noblest  of 
virtues,  however,  without  betraying  her  confidence,  I 
may  be  permitted  to  say,  that  it  is  positively  sub- 
lime. She  has  dared  to  tell  me,  what  few  women 
would  tell  any  man.  I  respect  her  for  it.  It  has 
given  me  more  confidence  in  her.  She  has  loved  before. 
The  object,  1  have  heard  of.  It  is  no  light  thing  to 
be  his  successor,  in  the  heart  that  he  has  ravaged  and  de- 
vastated. Yet  so  it  is — and  I  shall  be,  if  it  be  permitted 
unto  me.  I  am  now  waiting  my  doom.  My  happiness 
is  in  her  keeping.  Heaven  bless  her!  Whatever  be  her 
determination,  heaven  bless  her! 

Yours,  my  beloved  mother  and  sister, 

CHARLES  GRENVILLE. 


HELEN  TO  HER  MOTHER. 

Oh,  my  poor  blind  mother!  And  can  it  be,  that  the 
unnatural  daughter  hath  made  the  last  hours  of  that  pa- 
rent dark,  who,  in  the  helplessness  other  infancy,  would 
have  fed  her  with  the  light  of  her  own  eyes!  Can  it  be 
my  mother,  that  the  little  Helen,  thine  own,  thine  only 
daughter,  who  was  fed  of  thy  beauty;  and  whom  thou 
wouldsthave  nourished  with  thy  life-blood,  hath  turned, 
upon  her  mother,  in  the  day  of  her  bereavement;  and  smit- 
ten that  bosom  with  death,  where  she  once  nestled  so  in- 
nocently!— those  eyes,  with  blindness,  that  wept  away 
their  light  upon  her — O,  my  mother!  my  mother!  What 
have  I  not  suffered.  The  innocent  babe,  the  unpractised 
child,  whose  ways  were  like  the  thought  of  thine  own 
heart;  she,  who,  in  the  morning  of  her  days,  would  not 
have  brushed  away  the  dust  from  an  insect's  wing,  with 
rudeness — she,  who  wept,  if  the  bowed  lily  wept,  or  the 

JLt 


270  HANDOLPH. 

pale  rose  shed  its  perfume,  with  a  sickly  quivering  of  the 
leaf — even  she!  what  hath  she  become — an  adultress! — a 
murderess! — a  parricide! — She  hath  slain  more  than  one 
husband — she  hath!  0,  no,  I  dare  not  tell  the  truth. — 
He,  the  blessed  martyr,  he,  whom  thou  hast  unwittingly, 
so  often  called  down  the  lightning  *wpon — he,  my  living 
husband,  is  the  man!  He  is  the  injured — the  wronged — 
the  broken  hearted!  He  is  dying;  and  I  have  destroyed 
him.  Yet  hath  he  forgiven  me — wept  over  me;  blessed 
thee,  my  mother,  and  the  father  that  hath  followed  me! 
O,  how  little  thou  knowest  him!  Would  that  I  could  tell 
the  whole.  But  the  tremendous  secret  may  not  be  told; 
— nay,  who  shall  tell  it.  I  have  only  a  faint  imagining 
of  the  truth.  I  cannot  speak.  My  faculties  are  bound. 
My  husband,  O,  bless  him,  the  noblest  and  the  truest 
heart  that  ever  beat — he  hath  forbidden  it,  and  my  father's 
eyes  look  awfully  down  upon  me,  in  the  deepest  mid- 
night, when  my  heart  is  meditating  treason  to  the  vow; 
for  I  would  tell  it — I  would,  if  I  might;  and  then  lay  me 
down  and  die.  But  one  day — O,  it  will  come!  Heaven 
will  not  permit  the  abused  to  go  to  their  graves  dishonoured 
— if  it  do,  there  is  no  justice  in  heaven. 

He  is  now  lying  in  the  next  apartment — nay,  perhaps, 
is  now  meditating  on  the  devastation  that  I  have  caused,  /, 
whom  he  hath  so  loved!  JT,  to  whom  he  hath  hewed  down 
his  idols,  one  after  the  other,  Love!  Ambition!  Revenge! 

1 Oh  mercy — mercy!  1,  that  am  so  wicked,  and 

worthless,  and  miserable.  O  Molton — thou!  before  whom 
my  spirit  could  not  stand  upright,  even  at  our  first  meet- 
ing, how  will  it  meet  thy  rebuke,  when  thou  shalt  know 

all! — all! .    By  the  throne  of  the  Eternal,  mother,  the 

fierce  spirit  that  wears  me,  must  have  space  and  height 
for  jits  operation.  It  must  be  free.  Pity  me — O,  pity 
me — the  awful  mystery  that  encompasses  me,  as  with 
a  web  of  darkness  and  fire,  may  not  be  broken  by  me; — 

it  may  not,  for  a  time!  but  when  it  is O,  my  mother, 

thy  heart  will  break  with  it;  and  thou,  O  my  husband, 
my  husband! — even  thy  great  bosom  will  be  shattered  by 
it!  Mother,  why  was  1  born?  What  deadly  sin  hadst 
thou,  or  thine  ancestry  committed,  that,  upon  my  poor 


RANDOLPH. 

head,  there  should  accumulate  this  weight  of  horrour  and 

consternation!—^ forgive  me.     I  know  not  what 

I  say.  I  am  forbidden  to  write  to  thee.  Father  has 
written,  perhaps;  and  has  told  thee  that  I  am  well.  Do 
not  believe  him,  mother.  I  am  not  well.  There  is  a 
weight  here — a  fire  here — unquenchable; — a  weight,  that 
the  hand  of  God  only  can  lift.  Pray  for  me,  mother;  I 
cannot  pray.  The  dark,  frightful  countenance  of  Re- 
morse is  now  pressed  to  mine, — he  sucks  my  breath — I 

feel  it  now,  now! and  my  poor  lips, — 6,  they   are 

parched  to  cinder.  Hush!  there  are  strange  sounds  a* 
midnight; — it  is  near  the  time  now — I  wonder  if  Edward 
hears  them.  I  don't  know — it  would  be  difficult  to  tell. 
He  betrays  nothing  by  his  words;  but  his  hand  has  grown 
mortally* cold;  nay,  his  whole  arm,  as  it  embraced  me; 
and  the  thick,  icy  sweat  has  started  out,  all  at  once,  from 
his  forehead,  as  it  lay  upon  my  cheek — I  have  observed 
it.  He  thought  me  asleep — a  cold  tremour  wrent  over  him 
— and  he  drew  me  closer  to  his  bosom,  like  one  that  will 
not  relinquish  what  it  most  loves,  though  he  be  superna- 

turally  required.     Ha! nay,  I  hear  nothing.     But  I 

feel  somebody  near  me.  I  dare  not  look  up — I  continue 
writing,  yet  my  pen  will  scarcely  move  over  the  paper. — 
It -looks  over  me— I  feel  the  coldness  approaching — I 

have  grown  familiar  with  horrour  lately — I 1    *  * 

^         #         #         *         *        #         #    .     #         *         % 

It  was  my  dear  father.  "To  whom  are  you  writing 
Helen?"  said  he,  "To  my  mother,  sir."  "Be  careful  not 
to  alarm  her,"  said  he,  impressively.  I  promised  to  obey. 
Have  I  not  kept  the  promise?  O,  mother,  you  are  not, 
you  have  not  been  alarmed,  have  you  mother? 

Ah,  would  that  I  were  near  you  onc^  more! — would  it 
not  refresh  this  poor  wasted  and  deselate  heart?  It  would. 
You  would  weep  for  me — love  me  the  better,  for  my  trans- 
gression, as  a  mother  loves  her  sick  babe  the  more  for 
its  sickness.  Why  art  thou  not  here?  Yet  no — stay 
there,  my  mother,  stay  there.  It  is  wiser — for,  if  Molton 
die — lo! — mother  do  thou  pray  for  me!  The  very  thought 
struck  upon  my  brain,  like  a  clod  upon  a  coffin  lid.  The 
hollow  sound  is  there  yet.  Let  it  not  pass  away.  I 


£72  RANDOLPH. 

care  not  how  soon  I  am  delirious — once  so,  my  obliga- 
tion ceases — I  am  no  longer  accountable.  Mother,  pray 
forme;— do  you  ever  pray,  now? — You,  who  were  once  so 
good,  so  sweet,  so  constant  in  prayer?  No,  you  do  not 
— what!  not  pray — woman!  look  at  me.  See  what  you 
have  brought  me  to — Me,  Helen! — me,  your  only  daugh- 
ter. Had  you  prayed-  devoutly — taught  me  to  pray, 
"When  my  little  hands  had  strength  to  join  themselves  to- 
gether, the  blessing  were  now  upon  your  own  head.— 
But  you  did  not.  I  knew  no  praver — I  was  spoilt.  Be- 
hold the  consequences.  Yet — O,  my  mother,  I  do  love 
you — I  do.  It  grows  darker,  darker,  much  darker 
farewell — heaven  bless  you,  and  forgive  me. 

HELEN  MOLTON. 
TRANK  TO  JOHN. 

Portsmouth)  JV*.  Hampshire. 
Dear  John — — 

What  you  have  told  me  of  Molton  amazes  me;  but,  I 
am  most  concerned,  and  most  cruelly  sensible  and  inter- 
ested, in  what  relates  to  Mr.  Grenville  and  Juliet.  It 
cannot  be,  I  am  sure,  that  her  heart  is  made  of  such  a  ma- 
terial. Yet,  it  may — and  there  is  no  reasoning  with  the 
affections.  The  gentleman  in  question,  I  know  nothing 
of.  The  worst  fault  that  I  can  find,  is,  what  seems  to 
be  something  else,  in  your  estimation.  He  has  no  ene- 
mies. At  least,  it  would  appear  so,  at  present.  If  it  be 
true,  he  must  be  insignificant.  Virtue  and  distinction  of 
character,  will  have  enemies.  Good  men  are  never  with- 
out them.  Fools  have  no  enemies.  He  who  has  no  en- 
emies, has  no  friends.  Jesus  Christ  had  enemies — and 
the  best  and  wisest  always  have  had,  and  always  will 
liave.  It  is  a  part  of  heaven's  appointment  of  trial  and 
temptation  to  man.  Can  the  wicked  and  base  feel  other 
than  enmity, for  him  that  arrays  himself,  boldly  and  con- 
stantly, against  their  favourite  imlulgencies^  No—  unless 


RAJOJ01PH.  273 

there  be  imbecility;  and  that  is  no  barrier.  But,  enough 
of  him.  He  is  unworthy  of  her.  Beside,  there  is  too 
great  a  disparity  in  their  years.  It  is  less  apparent  now, 
than  it  will  be;  his  habits  are  settled,  hers  are  not.  A 
man  and  wife,  ought  to  grow  old  together,  like  their  ser- 
vants and  their  furniture.  It  is  preposterous  to  mingle 
generations — nay,  wicked.  Heaven  hath  always  pair- 
ed the  youthful,  unless,  when  it  would  punish  vice,  or 
make  avarice  ridiculous,  or  lechery  hateful.  Enough. — 
Of  one  thing,  I  am  certain.  She  will  never  marry, 
without  a  disclosure  of  her  heart,  and  its  whole  history; 
and  God  help  the  man  that  consents  to  occupy  a  tenement, 
that  is  haunted  by  Molton.  I  know  not  who  he  is — I 
know  not  what  are  his  powers.  He  appears  to  be,  only 
a  plain,  positive  man — very  direct,  and  energetick;  but, 
he  has  the  mysterious  faculty  of  consecrating  to  himself, 
and/orerer,  whatever  he  touches,  even  in  his  wantonness. 
1  have  found  it  so.  I  do  not  say  this,  in  bitterness.  But, 
if  Mr.  Grenville  ha\e  the  courage,  for  she  will  never  de- 
ceive him,  to  run  the  risk  of  having  his  repose  darkened, 
and  his  temples  bleached,  by  the  presence  of  Molton's 
spirit — let  him,  in  heaven's  name!  But,  mark  my  words. 
The  woman  will  deceive  herself — Molton  will  abide 
there,  and  he  will  know  it.  Her  memory  will  be  his — 
her  thought  his — her  tears,  even  in  the  arms  of  her  hus- 
band, his — and  his  alone,  forever,  and  forever! 

Let  me  quit  the  theme; — it  is  hateful  to  me.  I  could 
throw  myself  down  upon  the  bed,  and  weep,  for  very 
sorrow,  over  the  calamities,  that  I  foresee.  Poor,  dear 
Juliet!  would,  that  I  might  save  thee! — O,  how  readily  I 
would,  even,  at  the  peril  of  mine  own  peace — though  my 
heart  crumbled  in  the  effort.  Yet,  farewell! — it  may  be, 
that  heaven  hath  set  its  seal  upon  thy  front — unspotted, 
unprofaned,  a  sweet  flower,  to  die  in  blossom.  Would, 
that  it  were  so! — thy  whole  body,  sweet,  would  gush  up, 
in  violets  and  snew-drops — farewell! — and  now,  for  a 
livelier  air. 

This  is  a  very  pretty  town,  built  chiefly  of  brick,  with 
a  plenty  of  house  room.  They  have  a  strange,  conve- 
nient fancy,  in  this  part  of  the  world,  of  building  prodi* 


274  KAND01PH. 

giously  large,  "roomy"  houses;  often,  of  such  materials, 
that  it  w  ill  cost  the  rent,  to  keep  them  in  repair;  and,  not 
unfrequently,  I  am  told,  there  are  to  befound,  some  ven- 
erable buildings,  of  twenty  or  thirty — ages? — no,  years; 
which  have  been  so  often  repaired,  and  so  effectually, 
that,  like  the  ship,  in  which  Cooke  sailed  round  the 
world,  there  is  not  wood  enough  of  the  original  stock 
left,  to  make  a  tooth-pick  of.  The  girls  are  pretty,  but 
singularly  rude,  here,  and  have  been  much  more  so,  I  am 
told.  Nay  there  'was  a  generation,  whose  commonest 
frolicks  were,  knocking  off  young  men's  hats,  or  taking 
their  arms,  in  the  street;  driving  four  horses,  standing  up, 
over  the  side  walks;  tying  old  men's  legs  and  arms  to- 
gether; and  chucking  cold  water  into  the  bosom  of  a 
dapper  little  parson,  that  once  lived  here; — and  I  am, 
told,  and  what  is  more,  believe  it,  that  it  was  no  uncom- 
mon thing  here,  at  one  time,  for  the  beautiful  women  of 
the  place,  to  manifest  a  somewhat  unnatural  precipita- 
tion, in  the  birth  of  their  Jirst  child;  but,  it  never  hap- 
pens to  the  same  person,  a  second  time,  however.  At 
church,  yesterday,  a  wicked  fellow  pointed  out  five  fine 
looking  women,  to  whom  this  awkward  affair  happened, 
nearly  about  the  same  time.  The  physicians  were  in- 
conceivably alarmed  at  first.  It  seemed  to  be  quite  a 
dead  set  at  the  common  doctrines  of  gestation;  but  it  was 
at  last,  very  satisfactorily  accounted  for,  by  the  night 
air,  long  walks;  and  some  other  indulgencies,  of  a  simi- 
lar nature,  persevered  in,  for  rather  too  long  a  time,  be- 
fore marriage. 

Sarah  is  altogether  better;  and  really,  so  beautiful,  with 
the  transparency  of  her  complexion,  and  clearness  of  her 
quick  hazle  eyes,  and  the  glossiness  of  her  full  hair,  as 
to  excite  universal  attention,  even  among  the  women  hare, 
who  are,  decidedly,  the  handsomest  that  I  have  seen, 
for  a  long  while.  In  Boston,  they  were  frightful;  they 
turned  my  stomach  inside  out,  in  riding  through;  though 
she  says  that  there  are,  somewhere,  to  be  seen  in  the  place, 
two  or  three  downright  lovely  creatures; — there  may  be; 
all  that  I  say  is,  that  they  ought  to  build  temples  to  them. 


I    4 


RANDOLPH.  275 

This  town  has  been  cruelly  afflicted  by  fires;  year  after 
year,  destroying  hundreds  of  houses  at  a  time.  The  con- 
sequence is  that,  though  an  old  town,  it  has  the  appear- 
ance of  a  new  one.  There  is  little  business  done,  now — 
being  cut  up  by  smaller  places,  and  so  situated,  that 
Newburyport,  another  beautiful  town,  of  8,  or  10,000 
inhabitants,  through  which  we  passed,  yesterday;  and 
Salem,  (where  Sarah  was  sick — an  jpulentold  fashioned 
matter  of  12,  or  14,000  inhabitants,)  and  Portland, 
which  we  have  not  yet  seen,  take  off  all  its  trade.  Yet, 
the  others,  with  the  exception  of  Portland,  are  as  little 
thriving,  it  would  seem,  as  Portsmouth.  Newburyport 
was  visited  by  a  tremendous  fire  too,  a  few  years  ago; 
and  it  is  no  wonder  that  they  are  so  frequent  and  fatal, 
as  most  of  the  houses  here,  forty  years  old,  are  built  of 
pine  boards,  and  caught  like  tinder,  after  a  little  hot 
weather.  Yet,  they  have  a  light,  cheerful  appearance;  and, 
for  country  houses,  I  like  them  better  than  stone  or  brick, 
which  are  always  damp  and  cold.  Portsmouth  is  the  cap- 
ital of  the  state;  and  was  the  seat  of  government,  till 
lately;  but,  for  all  such  matters,  I  refer  you,  at  once,  to 
Morse's  Gazetteer.  My  remarks  shall  be  confined  to 
manners, — when  I  meet  with  any.  In  Newburyport, 
there  are  none  at  all;— -they  look  sad;  and  I  should  think 
the  whole  population  was  made  up  of  creditors  that  could 
not  get  their  pay,  and  debtors  that  could  not  pay. 

Adieu 

FRANK. 


SARAH    TO    JULIET. 

I  thank  you,  my  dear  Juliet,  from  the  very  depth  of 
my  heart,  for  your  last  kind  letter.  I  have  endeavour- 
ed to  follow  your  advice;  and,  when  we  meet,  which  I 
hope,  will  be  soon,  I  trust  that  you  will  see  some  other 
evidence  than  her  word,  that  Sarah  Ramsay  is  better 
and  wiser  for  her  sorrow.  The  dispensation  was  heavy, 
Juliet;  and  my  heart  was  in  its  unpreparedness.  In  my 


RANDOLPH. 

poor  father,  all  its  affections  were  concentrated.  All 
that  had  been  torn  away,  from  other  cherished  ones, 
had,  it  seemed  to  me,  fastened  upon  him,  as  the  nearest 
and  best,  for  support  and  nourishment.  I  thought  that 
I  was  prepared  for  almost  every  thing.  O,  I  was  cruel- 
ly mistaken.  The  blow  came,  as  if  it  would  shatter  me. 
It  fell — and  I  was  alone.  No  father;— no  mother! — 
no  sister! — no  brother; — forgive  my  tears,  Juliet,  they 
are  a  relief  to  me.  My  poor  father,  as  you  know,  was 
never  weakly  indulgent  to  me;  but  his  plain  good  sense, 
his  household  virtue,  and  his  worldly  wisdom—these  were 
the  substantial  things  of  this  life,  without  which,  we  are 
weaker  than  children.  One  only  thing,  did  I  pray  for; — 
in  all  others,  he  was  a  good  man.  He  wanted  that  ear- 
nest vitality  of  religion,  which  early  sickness,  and  lit- 
tle else  can,  will  always  teach  the  sensible  and  meek 
heart,  that  lovely  and  beautiful  religion,  which  steals  up- 
on us,  like  the  dew  of  heaven,  in  purity,  and  freshness, 
while  we  are  sleeping. — Yes,  he  wanted  that;  but  he  was 
nevertheless,  a  good  man,  practically  good,  and  very- 
useful.  Let  us  hope — yea,  I  do  hope,  in  humble  confi- 
dence, that  he  hath  had  meted  to  him,  the  measure  of 
love  and  forgiveness.  Nay,  more;  I  do  believe  it,  for, 
when  we  parted,  he  blessed  me,  and  bade  me  pray  more 
frequently,  saying  that'»it  would  be  a  comfort  upon  my 
death  bed."  His  countenance  was  serene,  but  earnest; 
and,  during  all  the  delirium  which  followed,  with  me,  I 
heard  his  voice  and  saw  his  face,  continually.  Let  us 
obey  him,  my  dear  Juliet — my  sister.  Yes — I  will  be 

thy  sister. — And,  now,  to  be  less  melancholy.     *     *     * 
##*##*#** 

By  the  way,  Frank  is  somehow  or  other  beside  him- 
self of  late.  What  has  happened  to  him?  Can  his  spi- 
rits be  artificial?  Sometimes  I  think  that  they  are.  A 
thought  strikes  me,  Juliet — hear  me — it  is  said,  that 
Grenville  is  making  his  regular  approaches.  Do  not 
be  precipitate.  Situations  have  their  influence. — While 
I  have  a  home,  and  a  house,  it  is  the  home  and  house  of 
Juliet.  Have  I  said  enough? — I  shall  soon  be  there,  and 
then  we  shall  be  happy. 


RANDOLPH.  277 

Shall  I  attempt  to  give  you  some  account  of  our  jour- 
neying, and  plans?  We  propose  going  to  Quebec.  I 
find  that  a  visit  to  one  of  my  relations,  which  I  shall 
make,  by  gradual  stages,  will  carry  me  up  the  Kenne- 
bcck  river,  to  a  place  not  more  than  sixty  miles  from 
Quebec;  and  how  can  I  return  without  having  been 
there,  particularly  with  so  elegant  a  fellow  as  Frank, 
for  a  protector.  I  assure  you  that,  we  attract  a 
good  deal  of  attention;  and,  in  spite  of  all  his  artifices, 
I  can  perceive,  by  the  sparkling  of  his  eyes,  and  an  oc- 
casional silliness  about  his  handsome  mouth,  mighty 
common  in  our  moments  of  self-complacency,  when  we 
try  to  conceal  our  pleasant  thoughts — that  he  is  much 
flattered  by  it.  I  write  in  spirits,  Juliet,  for  I  feel  in 
spirits;  and  it  were  a  wicked  affectation,  I  think,  at 
such  a  season,  when  heaven  is  all  blue  above  us,  and  the 
beautiful  earth,  so  green,  to  shut  up  our  senses  in  sorrow 
for  the  past.  No — I  can  think  of  my  father,  without  forget- 
ing  my  Maker.  And  1  can  enjoy  the  colour  and  incense 
that  surround  me,  I  hope,  without  any  unbecoming  neg- 
ligence of  either: — but  Frank  has  just  left  me,  laugh- 
ing at  the  freedom  of  the  women  here;  some  country 
girls,  [  suppose — they  took  his  arm  without  any  cere- 
mony, as  he  was  sauntering  along,  under  one  of  the 
most  magnificent  old  elm -trees  in  the  world.  He  was 
astonished,  shocked  at  their  indelicacy;  but  a  little  con- 
versation set  him  right.  They  were  women  of  sense 
and  education;  and,  when  questioned,  candidly  attributed 
their  conduct  to  the  scarcity  of  beaux,  who,  they  say, 
are  in  the  habit  of  running  away,  from  their  native 
town,  as  soon  as  they  can  go  alone,  and  as  fast  as  they 
are  able.  Frank  said  that  he  did  not  wonder  at  it — for 
which  compliment,  they  invited  him  home.  Really*  he 
says,  he  found  those  very  romps-,  whose  manners  had  so 
alarmed  him  at  first,  and  he  really  had  a  great  deal  of 
sensitiveness,  entertaining  and  sensible.  Frank's  man- 
ners, you  know,  would  recommend  him  any  where;  and, 
when  he  produced  his  letters,  which  was  not  until  he  was 
on  the  most  familiar  footing,  what  was  his  surprise  to 
find  that  some  of  them  were  to  the  fathers,  brothers, 


£80  RANDOLPH. 

"We  arc  no  longer,  in  their  opinion, — a  people  of  billiard 
players,-^-slave  dealers,  and  horse  jockies;  nor  they,  in 
ours,  a  people  made  up  of  dealers  in  wooden  ware,  and 
"long  and  short  sarse,"  as,  it  is  said,  they  call  vegetables, 
turnips,  onions, — potatoes  being  "round  sauce;  which 
they  pronounced  sarse,  and  carrots,  beats,  parsnips,  &c. 
long  sauce."  They  do  call  vegetables  sauce;  that  I  can 
aver,  for  I  have  heard  it  often.  Another  thing  that 
strikes  a  stranger  from  our  world  here,  is  the  being 
waited  upon,  by  the  family  at  the  taverns,  and  of- 
ten by  genteel  girls.  They  have  their  whims,  it  is  true; 
but  they  are  a  hard  working,  religious,  sober  people, 
who  may  always  be  depended  upon,  in  the  hour  of  trial. 
Look  at  the  men  of  the  revolution?  Where  did  the  spirit 
first  appear?  Who  withstood,  so  soon,  or  so  steadily,  the 
continual  encroachment  and  inroad  of  power?  The  men 
of  New  England  may  justly  boast  of  their  ancestry. — 
They  were  the  persecuted  pilgrim, — mistaken,  no  doubt, 
in  points  of  faith,  but  never  mistaken  in  his  duty  to  God. 
Their  "family  jewels"  are  not  hand-cuffs  nor  manacles; 
no  convicts  were  exported  to  New  England; — and  the 
people  are  more  purely  national  than  any  other  in  Ameri- 
ca. It  is  rare  to  see  a  Frenchman  here; — and  an  Italian, 
Spaniard,  German,  or  other  European  is  a  prodigy. — 
B tacks,  too,  are  scarcely  to  be  seen;  and  they  that  are  so, 
are  freemen,  humble,  industrious,  and  orderly. 

No,  Juliet,  we  have  wronged  this  people.  They  have 
poured  in  their  population  upon  us,  as  we  have  ours  upon 
the  south.  It  is  the  natural  appointment  of  heaven.  The 
hardy  barbarians  of  the  north,  have  always  overrun  the 
slothful  and  effeminate  men  of  the  south;  and  they  always 
will;  yet,  must  we  look  to  the  south  for  genius, — here 
for  talent;  there  for  poetry  and  rhetorick,  and  eloquence, 
and  painting;  here  for  wisdom,  law,  mathematicks  and 
scholarship.  And  so  it  is— |the  most  learned  body  of 
divines  in  the  world  perhaps,  of  their  age,  are  to  be 
found  in  New  England.  They  are  a  school  of  protes- 
tant  Jesuits.]  Do  not  listen  to  the  vulgar  stories  about 
this  people.  Ninety-nine  out  of  one  hundred,  that  we  have 
heard,  again  and  again  repeated,  as  Yankee  tricks,  are 


RANDOLPH.  281 

either  inventions;  aggravations;  old  stories,  newly  dress- 
ed; or  were  not  committed  by  Yankees.  They  are  now, 
however,  the  legitimate  parent  of  every  trick,  as  an 
Irishman  is,  of  every  blunder,  no  matter  who  may  beget 
it.  For  my  own  part,  I  have  no  reason  to  believe  that 
dishonesty  is  more  common  here,  than  with  us; — if  it 
were,  and  practised  as  a  trade,  there  would  be  no  deal- 
ing with  these  men,  I  confess.  They  are  so  persevering? 
up  early  and  late;  and  move  with  such  a  substanstial  re- 
gularity, in  all  the  affairs  of  life.  They  are  the  Scotch 
of  America. 

Farewell — I  shall  write  to  you  next  from  Portland — I 
hope. 

SARAH. 


JOHN    TO    FRANK. 

Molton  is  gradually  recovering  from  the  wound;  but 
there  is  some  incurable  disease,  of  which  his  physicians 
are  forbidden  to  speak,  that  will  inevitably  carry  him  to 
his  grave.  What  can  it  be?  Can  it  be  the  "perilous 
stuff"  that  a  troubled  conscience  will  engender*?  I  know 
not.  But  this  [  know,  that  the  oldest  and  wisest  of  his 
physicians,  when  he  spoke  of  Molton,  to  me,  but  the  other 
day,  spoke  of  him  with  feeling  and  affection;  and,  when 
I  alluded  to  this  hidden  disease, — his  face  altered  amaz- 
ingly— a  strange  expression,  compounded  of  horrour  and 
doubt,  it  appeared  to  me,  passed  athwart  it.  I  pur- 
sued my  inquiries;  but  he  looked  at  me  kindly,  shook  his 
head,  and  departed.  My  curiosity  was  unappeasable. 
I  assailed  the  other  two,  in  succession;  but  with  precise- 
ly the  same  success,  except  that  the  younger,  a  free 
hearted,  noble  fellow,  about  my  own  age,  added,  as  he  left 
me,  these  words-— "Edward  Molton  is  no  common  man.'* 

Helen  is  perpetually  by  his  bed  side; — it  is  not  a  moment 

since  I  left  him,  sitting  up,  supported  by  pillows;  the  air 

gently  stirring  the  white  drapery  of  the  bed;  and  just  light 

enough  in  the  room,  for  all  the  shutters  were  drawn,  and 

AA 


282  RANDOLPH. 

X   '  *» 

all  the  windows  except  one,  darkened — to  see  Helen  sit- 
ting on  a  low  stool  by  him;  her  face  uplifted  to  him,  with 
such  an  expression  of  awe  and  delight,  of  pity  and  pas- 
sionate love — with  a  dash  too,  of  gentleness  and  melan- 
choly— ah!  the  delirious  brightness  of  her  half-shut  eyes! 
— the  eager  parting  of  her  sweet  lips! — her  short,  quick, 
deep  breathing — her  dark  tresses,  wreathed  and  undu- 
lating brightly,  from  her  upturned  forehead  of  transpa- 
rent clearness — every  breath  a  sob! — O,  by  heaven,  bro- 
ther, to  have  such  a  creature  wait  and  feed  upon  my  coun- 
tenance, for  one  minute,  like  that,  I  would  consent  to 
die. 

How  do  I  stand  toward  Molton?  Simply  and  truly 
thus — I  love  hi;'i,  I  respect  him,  more  than  t  ever  believ- 
ed that  I  could  love  and  respect  any  man  but  you,  Frank. 
I  feel  a  constantly  augmenting  attachment.  Every  hour 
makes  me  more  familiar  with  him;  yet,  every  hour,  I  find 
him  more  august.  There  is  a  terrible  simplicity  in  the  ope- 
ration of  his  mind,  when  we  are  once  admitted  behind  the 
curtain.  I  do  not  pretend  to  understand  him.  I  feel  that 
I  cannot.  There  is  more  longitude  and  latitude,  more 
elevation  and  depth  in  his  thought,  than  1  am  yet  able  to 
conceive.  At  times  I  have  thought  that  I  was  near  to  the 
secret  fountain  of  his  strength;  that  his  foundations  were 
uncovered.  I  was  mistaken — the  springs  lay  deeper, 
and  the  pillars  were  sunken  where  I  dared  not  penetrate. 
And,  at  last,  the  sum  of  all  my  discovery  is,  that,  the 
nearer  we  approach  him,  the  more  we  are  oppressed  with 
a  sense  of  his  amplitude.  It  is  like  journeying  in  the 
highlands, — the  elevations  that  you  have  passed,  are  on- 
ly stepping  stones  to  what  is  before  you,  no  matter  how 
long  you  have  travelled,  or  how  wearily; — and  the  pros- 
pect enlarges  with  your  ascent. Good  night. 

Sunday  Morning,  — . 

I  hare  just  left  my  bed.  Last  night  was  the  first,  in 
which  I  have  been  permitted  to  sleep  soundly;  and  I  shall 
spend  the  morning,  until  service,  in  relating  a  narrative 
that  Molton  has  made  to  me,  concerning  certain  stories, 


«f   »r 

,r  ::|v 

RANDOLPH.  283 

in  which  we  are  deeply  concerned.  You  will  let  Sarah 
have  this;  I  shall  continue  it,  day  by  day,  as  I  have  time, 
until  the  whole  be  related. 

Yesterday,  as  we  sat  together;— he,  leaning  upon  the 
shoulder  of  Helen,  he  renewed  the  subject  of  certain  sto- 
ries; and  went  deliberately  through  them,  one  by  one, 
with  the  solemnity  of  a  dying  man,  who  would  be  at 
peace  with  all  the  world. 

His  words  have  impressed  themselves  upon  my  memo- 
ry, with  a  distinctness  that  is  wonderful;  and  his  manner 
was  so  calm  and  impressive,  that  I  shall  not  forget  it,  to 
my  dying  day. 

"It  is  true,"  said  he, — "I  do  not  deny  it;  that,  as  is  al- 
leged, I  did  manifest  uncommonly  premature  signs  of 
wickedness.  I  was  a  liar.  I  should  have  become  a 
drunkard  in  time;  for  I  often  drank  brandy,  with  sugar, 
until  my  cheeks  were  inflamed.  1  was  a  coward  too. — 
And  I  was  a  thief.  I  can  recal  many  acts  of  deliberate 
cunning  and  villany,  perpetrated  by  me,  before  1  was 
ten;  acts,  which  have  made  it  little  less  than  miraculous, 
that  I  have  escaped  the  Penitentiary.  It  is  all  true. 
But  did  your  informer  know  that  I  am  an  altered  man. 
Mr.  Omar,  I  am  but  just  rising  from  a  sick  bed.  A  man 
must  have  no  common  degree  of  hardihood,  who  can  tri- 
fle with  the  sacredness  of  truth,  at  such  a  moment.  I  wish 
jrou  to  believe  me.  It  will  be  a  comfort  to  you,  one  day 
or  other.  You  have  thought  well  of  me;  and  I  pledge 
myself  that,  the  more  intimately  you  know  me,  the  better 
you  will  think  of  me — the  more  you  will  love  mer— -anil 
respect  me. 

You  ought  to  know  what  I  am,  as  well  as  what  I  was. 
At  twelve  years  of  age,  I  undertook,  unaided  and  alone, 
the  work  of  reformation.  I  was  a  liar — 1  am  so  no 
longer.  I  was  intemperate,  in  childhood.  As  a  man,  I  am 
temperate,  almost  beyond  example.  The  taste  of  spiritu- 
ous liquor,  simple  or  compound,  I  only  know  from  memo- 
ry; and,  for  nine  years  I  never  drank  a  glass  of  wine. — 
I  was  exceedingly  profane.  Now,  you  will  hardly  hear 
a  profane  word  pass  my  lips,  from  one  year's  end  to  ano- 
ther, I  was  a  coward.  I  am  so  no  longer.  I  smoked 


284  RANDOLPH. 

— and  was  guilty  of  other  vices.  I  have  done  with  them 
all,  and  forever.  Not  that  I  have  no  vices  left — no,  I 
know  better.  I  know  that  I  have  a  devil  within  me — 
but  it  is  a  crowned  and  sceptred  devil.  I  am  proud  as 
Lucifer.  What  I  have  once  made  up  my  mind  to  do, 
that  have  I  always  done.  No  difficulties  have  disheart- 
ened me; — no  danger  intimidated  me.  I  appeal  to  my 
life.  If  I  had  been  a  bad  man,  then,  with  my  persever- 
ence  and  address,  was  there  any  tiling  that  I  could  not 
have  accomplished?  Yet,  what  do  you  hear  of  me — evil 
report;  vague,  dark,  glimmering  and  contradictory  spe- 
culations. 

My  chief  characteristick,  I  believe,  is  determination, 
unconquerable  determination.  I  have  learnt  to  respect 
myself.  I  knew  what  I  can  do;  and,  what  is  more,  in 
what  time  I  can  do  it. 

But  let  me  give  you  some  examples.  I  was  a  boy — 
there  were  but  few  things  that  a  boy  could  do,  to 
distinguish  himself.  I  thought  of  them;  resolved;  and,  in 
a  little  time,  1  had  no  rival.  It  is  of  little  consequence 
what  they  were;  they  were  a  part  of  my  trade. 

I  was  covetous  of  other  glory.  I  had  a  friend  that 
could  reason.  I  learnt  to  reason,  until  few  were  willing, 
or  able  to  enter  the  list  with  me. 

I  had  a  talent,  no  matter  of  what  nature,  that  slept, 
and  might  have  slept  forever,  unheeded,  in  darkness;  but 
another  friend  grew  conspicuous  for  his.  I  arose  then, 
and  battled  with  him.  In  my  turn,  I  became  known, 
and  wondered  at. 

I  had  a  talent  for  poetry.  The  world  said  that  I  had 
no  other  talent.  I  laughed  at  them.  J  laboured,  toiled, 
sweated  at  the  furnace  of  the  mind.  Still,  I  was  unknown. 
Still  I  was  told,  that  I  should  live  and  die  a  poet,  and 
nothing  but  a  poet.  I  resolved,  calmly  and  deliberately, 
that  I  would  not;  I  dashed  the  cup  from  my  lips.  I 
plucked  down  my  idol,  Poetry;  reduced  her  to  an  im- 
palpable powder;  and  scattered  the  glittering  dust  to 
the  four  winds  of  heaven.  I  resolved  to  worship  her  no 
longer — nay,  not  even  to  wait  at  her  temple.  I  was 
laughed  at.  I  was  told  that  I  could  not  abstain;  that 


RANDOLPH.  285 

poetry  was  aliment,  and  breath,  and  life  to  me.  Yet, 
my  resolution  hath  been  kept,  shall  be  kept,  to  my  dying 
day.  Not  a  line  have  I  written  since;  not  a  line  will  I 
write." 

What  I  once  resolve  to  accomplish,  I  already  so  know 
myself,  that  I  feel  as  if  it  were  half  done.  I  was  invited 
to  join  a  society.  It  was  proposed  to  change  the  night 
of  meeting,  for  my  accommodation.  I  visited  it  at  one  of 
the  sittings.  I  entered  into  debate; — was  triumphant, 
against  many  competitors;  and  proposed,  in  form,  for 
admission.  The  next  day,  the  second  officer  waited  on 
me;  and,  after  some  stammering,  informed  me  that  I  had 

been  ballotted  for,  and rejected.  "''I  told  him  that  I 

was  sorry,  for  the  sake  of  the  society;  that  I  considered  it 
a  compliment  to  them,  that  I  had  thought  of  joining  them, 
even  after  their  importunity;  and,  that  I  would  not  join 
them  then,  though  they  elected  me,  in  a  body,  and  pre- 
sented me  a  diploma,  upon  their  knees.  They  reconsider- 
ed the  question.  They  did  elect  me,  unanimously.  The 
same  officer  came  again.  I  kept  my  promise.  \ 

I  belonged  to  another  society.  I  was  one  of  Its  origi- 
nal founders.  It  flourished,  beyond  example.  I  saw 
fit,  no  matter  for  what  reason,  to  say  that  I  would  quit 
it,  unless  a  certain  proposition  were  adopted.  It  was  not 
adopted — for  nobody  believed  that  I  was  in  earnest — no- 
body thought  that  I  would  leave  the  institution.  Yet,  I 
did  leave  it,  and  forever.  I  had  supported  myself  by  my 
pen,  for  many  years;  it  was  time  to  embark  in  a  profes- 
sion, full  of  discouragement.  I  was  tempted  abroad. 
I  could  have  been  gent  to  the  American  Congress;  the  of- 
fer was  made  to  me.  But  no — I  resolved  to  succeed,  or 
perish,  in  one  particular  place,  because  every  body  told 
me  that  I  should  not  succeed.  I  had  no  friends — yet,  I 
deliberately  abandoned  my  only  resource,  my  pen,  be- 
cause it  appeared  inconsistent  with  my  plan.  What 
then? — /  did  succeed. 

Thus  much,  for  my  peculiarity  of  temper.  Many  more 
incidents,  I  might  give,  but  1  will  not.  There  are  enough 
to  show  you  that,  if  I  had  resolved  to  be  a  bad  man-- 
there was  nothing  to  arrest  my  course,  or  turn  my  hand 
swide.  It  is  always  easier  to  be  wicked  than  good— par- 


286  RANDOLPH. 

ticularly,  when  one  is  beset  on  every  side,  by  temptation, 
poverty,  evil,  and  reproach; — without  friends,  and  al- 
most without  hope;  certainly,  without  encouragement, 
except  that,  which  is  inwardly  furnished,  by  i*  proud 
heart,  confirmed  in  its  experience,  and  confident  of  itself, 
in  the  extremest  peril.  That  was  my  case.  Years  ago, 
I  foresaw  all  that  has  since  happened;  all  that  will  hap- 
pen, I  looked  upon  it  steadily,  as  upon  the  ebbing  and 
flowing  of  a  midnight  sea — shattered,  it  might  be,  now 
and  then,  in  the  star-light,  by  the  sudden  emerging  of 
some  spirit — the  dashing  of  some  great  wing  that  went 
over  it,  or  the  plunge  of  some  adventurous  bark;  but 
ebbing  and  flowing,  nevertheless,  with  an  everlasting 
steadiness — and  governed  forever,  by  the  same  immu- 
table law,  in  its  tremendous  wrath,  or  in  its  still  more 
tremendous  repose. 

But,  to  the  matter  in  question.  I  was  hated.  I  was 
unsocial;  when  I  left  my  native  village,  no  blessing,  and 
no  prayer  went  with  me.  I  went,  as  to  the  gallows,  cer- 
tainly, in  the  opinion  of  the  wise.  And  it  was  God  only 
— God,  and  mine  own  strength,  that  turned  my  destiny 
aside. 

Yes — I  did  once,  deliberately  insult  a  lady,  at  a  din- 
ner table.  Nay,  more  than  once — for,  on  another  occa- 
sion, I  have  seen  my  best  friend  leave  the  table  in  tears, 
at  some  inhuman  ribalry  of  mine; —  and  once,  I  remem- 
ber telling  a  lady,  very  distinctly,  that  she  lied,  at  table, 
while  her  lover  was  sitting  by  her  side.  Nay,  it  was  not, 
perhaps,  in  so  many  words;  but  the  amount  was  the  same, 
for  I  said  this: — "I  do  not  accuse  you  of  telling  a  delib- 
erate falsehood;  yet,  the  story  is  false;  and  I  have  the 
charity  to  believe  that  you  have  told  it  so  frequently,  that 
you  now  believe  it  yourself."  It  was  brutal.  I  am 
ashamed  of  it.  But  the  other  case,  and  I  know  not  which 
is  meant,  was  yet  worse.  There  have  been  those,  Mr. 
Omar,  who  have  dared  to  imagine  that  they  could  be  in- 
sensible to  any  thing  that  I  could  say.  Nay,  I  was  once 
told  so.  I  was  once  told  that  a  person  would  never  think 
of  being  angry  with  me.  It  was  calmly  said,  but  I  felt 
it.  My  heart  turned  bitter,  with  my  breath.  That  per- 


RANDOLPH*  287 

son  was  mistaken.  By  heaven,  there  never  lived  that 
human  being,  whose  blood  I  could  not  make  boil  in  his 
veins — whose  heart  I  could  not  turn  green,  in  his  bosom, 
at  my  bidding." 

TUESDAY  EVENING. — "Well.     The  case  was  this.  I 
was  invited  to  drink  a  glass  of  wine,  with  a  lady.     I 
loathed  wine.     My  conscience  had   forbidden  it.     The 
friend  that  urged  me,  knew  it.     The  lady,  with  whom 
I  was  requested    to  drink,  was  in  a  most  pitiable  situa- 
tion.    She  was  just  recovering  from  an  illness,  that  had 
unsteadied  her  brain. — I  would  have  bled  for  her — died 
for  her.      But  I  would  not  drink  wine.     I  refused.     Be- 
hold my  deliberate  insult.     Yet  it  was  chiefly  ignorance. 
I  did  not  know  then,  that  I  might  be  permitted  just  to 
touch  my  lips  to  the  glass,  and  leave  it.     I  thought  that 
the  fashion  was,  to  drink  it,  every  drop.     Had  it  been  a 
mortal  poison,  I  would  have  drunk  it,  to  make  any  one  that 
I  loved,  happier.     But,  as  it  w?as,  my  complaisance  would 
not  permit  me.  I  would  not  take  physick  for  fas  hion's  sake. 
I  refused;  and  here,  I  have  a  remark  to  introduce,  which 
has  always  been  a  governing  principle  with  me.     Let  it 
be  so  with  you.     I  love  politeness^    1  hold  it  to  be  the 
next  best  thing  to  religion,  for  quieting  the  rude,  and  re- 
straining the  profligate;  yet,  the  true  gentleman  will  ne- 
ver he  known  by  his  resemblance  to  any  body. — His 
fashion  is  his  own,    full  of  self-possession  and  dignity; 
he  carries  meaning  and  authority  in  every  movement. 
You  see  that  he  is  not  fashionable — but  you  see  that  he 
is  something  better.     You  see  that  fashion,  as  it  is,  the 
coxcombry  and  invention  of  fools,  to  preserve  their  in- 
significance from  detection,  is  something  beneath  him. — 
Yet,    you  dare  riot  call  him  unfashionable.     Go  where 
he  will;  in   what  dress  he  will;   in  what  age  he  will—- 
among what  people  he  will,  it  is  always  the  same.     But 
how  would  it  fare  with  one  of  your  fine  gentlemen  of  the 
common  cast — were  he  caught  out  of  his  own  company, 
among   strange   people,    in  the    courts   of  Europe? — 
He    would   be    taken    for  a    man-milliner; — a    some- 
thing to  be  played  with,   and  laughed  at,  by  the  la- 
dies;—a    ridiculous   contrivance,    made  to  fetch    and 
carry  gloves   and  fans; — an    automaton  to    bold   on 


£88  RANDOLPH* 

by  in  your  lounging. The  maxim  was  this, 

When  I  was  in  any  unexpected  situation,  no  matter  how 
new  or  how  suddenly — my  first  object,  was  to  do  what 
I  thought  proper,  without  imitating  anybody.  If  I  went 
wrong,  an  air  of  confidence  carried  me  through;  and  the 
well  bred  doubted  whether  I  were  not  better  bred  than 
themselves.  But,  if  they  had  caught  me  imitating  anybody, 
they  would  have  detected  my  ignorance  and  awkwardness, 
at  once;  and  would  have  had  a  standard  upon  which  to 
graduate  my  gentility.  If  you  are  in  doubt,  always  act 
with  decision  and  promptitude.  Ne  matter  where  you 
are.  That  will  carry  you  through.  And  above  all — re- 
member that — it  is  better  j or  a  man,  to  be  thought  regardless 
of  form,  than  ignorant  of  &fjbPfcFtbe  former,  he  may 
be  respected — Ifor  the  latter,  he  is  always  ridiculed.  So 
it  was,  in  this  case.  I  was  hated  for  my  ill  temper — but 
I  was  respected,  in  spite  of  all,  much  more,  than  if  1  had 
made  myself  sick  with  the  wine. — I  could  appeal  to  the 
lady  herself,  at  this  moment;  and  she  would  tell  you  of 
her  uncommon  regard  for  me. 

But  there  was  another  case.  I  wounded  the  woman 
whom  I  most  respected  on  earth,  at  the  time;  I  wounded 
her  to  the  heart,  at  table.  She  arose  and  left  the  room, 
in  tears.  It  was  no  premeditated  offence.  I  was  not 
even  conscious  that  my  words  had  been  capable  of  the 
cruel  interpretation,  which  had  struck  her.  I  pursued  her 
to  her  room.  Her  husband  was  my  dearest  friend. — 
He  was  away.  I  was  in  some  sort  the  delegated 
protector  of  his  wife,  in  his  absence.  Judge  of  my 
feeling,  when,  after  begging  her  pardon — she  told  me 
that  "had  her  husband  been  there,  1  would  not  have 
dared  to  say  what  J  had  said."  <«Not  dared,"  said  I— 
"madam,  you  do  not  believe  me.  1  told  you  that  it  was 
not  meant.  Of  course,  it  would  have  made  no  difference, 
whether  he  were  there  or  not.  But  you  know  me; — and 
I  trust,  know  enough  of  me,  to  believe  that  when  I  mean 
to  wound,  I  leave  no  room  for  conjecture  in  the  mind.— • 
I  strike  home — to  the  very  core .  Farewell! " 

I  left  her. — She  had  forgotten  the  natural  generosity 
of  her  nature,  and  we  had  well  nigh  parted  forever^  but 


RANDOLPH.  289 

we  did  not.  We  were  friends  again.  Whether  we  are 
now,  or  not,  I  cannot  tell.  All  that  I  know  is,  this — 
that  I  respect  and  love  her; — and,  if  we  ever  meet,  shall 
treat  her,  if  she  will  permit  me,  as  I  did,  when  we  part- 
ed, though  much  has  happened  since,  to  make  me  proud, 

and  her  foolish. Another  thing  has  always  been  a 

maxim  with  me.  It  is  written  in  blood./  If  I  suffer — 
never  to  let  the  world  know  it.  If  I  run  my  head  against 
a  post,  I  am  the  first  to  laugh  at  it;  and,  at  this  moment, 
were  I  dying  of  a  broken  heart,  there  is  not  that  crea- 
ture breathing,  who  would  be  able  to  say,  that  he  knew 
it,  or  that  he  ever  heard  me  complain.  But  I  affect  no 
melancholy.  I  have  no  wish  to  be  interesting.  I.  can- 
not stoop  to  play  the  hero,  for  women  and  children.  It 
is  the  fashion,  to  be  sure,  if  one  wishes  for  the  reputation  of 
genius,  to  be  very  unhappy,  peculiar,  dark  and  magnifi- 
cent. All  that  is  childish  to  me.  I  prefer,  rather,  if  I 
must  act,  to  act  cheerfulness. — You  will  forgive  these 
occasional  digressions.  I  throw  them  in,  as  they  occur, 
merely  that  you  may  have  a  faithful  copy  of  my  thought, 
in  its  natural  movement  and  operation. 

But  perhaps  the  writer  alludes  to  a  very  different  cir- 
cumstance; and  to  one  that  happened  more  recently. — 
Let  me  relate  it,  as  it  was;  and  then  Omar,  do  thou  judge 
between  her  and  me. 

You  have  heard  of  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Warren,  whose 
husband  is  known  for  many  things  that  are  especially 
pleasant — but  chiefly  as  being  the  husband  of  Mrs.  War- 
ren. He  plays  the  flute  sweetly;  is  passionately  fond  of 
musick  and  money;— and  once,  it  is  said,  offered  his  hand, 
with  the  most  familiar  air  in  the  world,  to  the  First  Con- 
sul of  France.  But  all  this  may  have  little  to  do  with 
his  wife,  who  is  really,  in  the  company  of  women,  alone, 
a  very  pleasant,  entertaining,  unaffected  creature — but 
in  the  company  of  wen,  men  whom  she  means  to  aston- 
ish— O,  she  is  quite  another  matter.  It  happened  that 
I  was  presented  to  her.  She  condescended  to  be  very  in- 
effable. But  as  I  had  heard  of  her,  I  determined  not  to 
be  astonished  at  anything — but  rather  to  astonish  her.-^ 
Yet  how  should  I  do  it? — There  was  only  one  way —to 


290  RANDOLPH. 

act  naturally,  speak  naturally,  and  honestly.  To  a  fash- 
ionable woman,  that  would  be  the  greatest  rarity;  and  I 
should  be  the  greatest  monster  in  the  world. 

By  some  chance,  it  happened,  half  a  century  ago,  per- 
haps, that  this  lady  was  presented  to  the  Queen  of  Eng- 
land. Now,  it  is  no  light  thing,  you  may  know,  for  a 
plain  republican,  like  me,  to  see  majesty  at  second  hand; 
and  next  to  seeing  the  queen,  was  seeing  one,  that  had 
seen  her,  you  know.  I  knew  all  this — yet,  if  you  will 
believe  me,  there  was  no  hurry  in  my  blood. 

She  spoke  4f  her  "uncle — the  general,"  and  "his  carri- 
age."— She  managed  it  very  prettily.  It  almost  took 
noiy  sight  away,  I  assure  you.  Yet,  as  true  as  you  sit 
there,  my  dear  Omar,  I  was  able  to  keep  my  seat. — 
She  then  condescended  to  mention  Mrs.  Siddons.  I  ask- 
ed her,  if  she  had  seen  her.  "O  yes!"  said  she,  with  the 
practised  air  of  one,  that  was  hand  and  glove  with  Mrs. 
Siddons.  But  something,  I  know  not  what — perhaps  it 
was  her  resemblance  to  an  old  friend  of  mine,  which  was 
really  so  great,  at  times,  that  I  was  on  the  point  of  catch- 
ing her  hand,  and  applauding  her — and  something,  of 
doubtfulness,  in  her  tone;  and  a  little  shifting  of  the  eye, 
as  she  said  this,  made  me  resolve,  spitefully  enough,  to  be 
sure,  to  push  the  question  home,  until  1  knew  exactly  the 
truth,  arid  the  extent  of  her  intimacy. 

"Ah!"  said  I,  in  reply — "well,  pray,  what  were  the  ta- 
lents of  Mrs.  S.  in  conversation? 

"Ah 1 1  have  heard  (faintly   articulated)  that 

she  is  remarkable  for  the  beauty  of  her  conversation. — 
But  such  dignity!" 

"In  private  life? — on  the  stage,  to  be  sure,  she  is 
queenly,  I—." 

*»O  yes — in  private  life;" — certainly,  Mr.  a — a — Mol- 
ton — in  private  life." 

*<\\as  she  pleasant  and  natural  in  tier  manner? — I  am 
delighted  to  find  that  you  knew  her  so  well." 

<.]No — I  cannot  say  that  I — I  knew  her  well.  I  have 
— seen — hem! — her — once — I  remember — in  the  exhibi- 
tion rooms — at  Somerset  house" — 

"Jtt  the  exhibition  rooms — at  Somer /"  echoed  I,  with 


RANDOLPH.  291 

a  look  of  unaffected  astonishment,  and  stopped  short  for 
her  reply. 

She  was  a  little  confused.  Her  perfectly  lady-like — 
self-possession  fled  for  a  moment;  and  she  added,  a  little, 
a  very  little  petulantly —"yes,  sir — but  it  was  no  com- 
mon privilege  to  be  admitted  there." 

The  devil  it  was'nt!  thought  I. 

Another  .might  have  foreborne  here.  But  I — I  knew 
that  she  was  in  my  power;  and  I  determined  to  punish 
her  for  such  a  vain  profanation  of  her  good  sense.  1  re- 
iterated tiiy  question*  as  1  would  have  examined  a  wit- 
ness, without  any  apparent  aim,  until  I  arrived  at  the 
truth*  that  all  her  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Siddons, 
amounted  to  her  havingpassed  her  once,  while  she  was  sit- 
ting in  a  picture  room. 

Well — the  lady  read  well;  and  she  knew  it.  A.  little 
hook  lay  upon  the  table;  and,  taking  it  for  gramted,  as 
hundreds  of  people  do,  who  are  taught  to  be  well  bred,  by 
such  scoundrels  as  Chesterfield — as  people,  are  cookery, 
out  of  book9 — that,  to  entertain  a  man,  you  must 
talk  to  him  of  his  trade,  no  matter  how  hateful  it 
is  to  him; — she  began  to  expatiate  upon  poetry.  And  then, 
she  began  to  read  a  page  out  of  Rogers'  Human  Life, 
I  believe,  about  a  cricket.  She  read  charmingly.  Had 
the  theme  been  worthy  of  her  voice  and  manner,  I  should 
have  listened  to  her  a  long  time,  f  confess,  without  yawn- 
ing in  her  face;  but,  as  it  was,  I  could  not  make  up  my 
mind  to  a  lie.  She  finished.  "There!"  said  she,  shut- 
ting the  book,  "there/  Mr.  Molton— is'nt  that  poetry?" 
her  fine  eyes  full  of  enthusiasm. 

"JVo/"  I  answered. 

She  was  thunderstruck.  My  friend  laughed  outright; 
and  I  was  sure  that  I  should  never  be  forgotten.  Such 
a  violation  of  bienseance.  She  complains  of  it  yet,  1  am 
told.  Well,  let  her — she  is  full  enough  of  bienseance; 
and  her  fool  of  a  husband  too . 

She  recovered  immediately,  however,  and,  in  a  much 
more  sprightly  and  natural  manner,  rang  a  series  of 
musick  upon  many  a  pleasant  theme,  for  a  whole  hour. — 
"Do  pray  tell  me.  Is  there  anything  new  in  the  litera- 
ry world?"  said  she,  at  last,  to  me. 


292  RANDOLPH. 

My  friend  looked  at  me,  and  smiled.    "Yes,  madam,' 
said  I; — "Lord  Byron  has  published  a  new  poem," 

"Ah!— what  is  it  called?" 

"Dow  JUAN." 

"Can  it  be  had  here,  do  you  know?" 

'•I  have  it,"  said  I — "and  it  is  at  your  service.  But — 
let  me  not  deceive  you.  It  is  cruelly  condemned  for  its 
licentiousness.  My  friend  there,  says  (and  he  has  just 
returned  it  to  me)  that  he  would  not  permit  his  wife  or  his 
sister  to  read  it.  Another,  who  has  read  it,  returns  it  to 
me,  with  a  similar  observation.  Dare  you  read  it?  Will 
you  read  it,  notwithstanding  this; — and,  on  my  simple 
recommendation?  Believe  me — it  will  reward  you. .  It 
is  full  of  beauty,  deep  tenderness  and  passion, — occasion- 
al sublimity— poetry  so  brilliant,  yet  so  delicate,  that — 

"Every  touch  that  woes  its  stay 
"Will  brush  its  brightest  hues  away. 

But,  full  of  raciness  and  pungency — yet,  stained  with 
impurity,  profligacy,  and  irreligion.  What  say  you? 
There  is  much  to  forgive;  much  to  pity;  but  not  mure 
than  in  the  School  for  Scandal — nor  so  much  as  in  Howe's 
Fair  Penitent?  I  have  a  better  opinion  of  women  than  Mr. 

D has — I  am  not  afraid  to  trust  them  with  such  a 

book." 

"I  will  read  it,"  said  she,  "without  any  hesitation." 

"That  is  what  '  expected,"  said  I — "and  I  have  many 
reasons  for  wishing  it — I  want  your  example — to  pro- 
tect a  person,  to  whom  1  lent  it — a  young  lady." 

She  interrupted  me — "O,  I  have  read  many  a  page 
that  I  would  prohibit  to  a  young  lady." 

"I  have  no  doubt  of  it,"  said  I,  very  gravely.  This  was 
too  much,  for  my  friend.  He  roared  outright.  He 
knew  and!  knew,  that  the  lady  had  the  reputation,  whe- 
ther justly  or  not,  I  do  not  pretend  to  say,  not  being  of 
the  privileged  order — of  having  her  rooms  furnished 
quite  a  lafrangoise — with  naked  Apollos  and  Venuses;  a 
pair  of  whom,  it  is  said,  once  frightened  a  little  child, 
who  ran  down  stairs  screaming,  that  she  had  peeped  in- 


KANDOI^H.  293 

to  the  room!  — and  there  were  aunt  and  uncle  Warren — 
standing  up  in  the  corner, — naked  as  they  were  born! — 
But  I  respected  her  the  more  for  her  independence.  I 
love  nature.  I  love  that  estimable  frankness  which  speaks 
promptly,  when  promptly  questioned.  .If  it  be  not  a  vir- 
tue, it  deserves  to  be  one;  and  is  ten  thousand  times  more 
graceful  and  bewitching,  than  all  the  foolery  and  no- 
thingness of  fashionable  life. 

\Vell — the  next  day,  I  waited  on  the  lady,  and  left  the 
book  with  her.  That  day,  she  stayed  at  home; — and,  the 
next,  she  returned  me  the  book, — apparently  about  one 
quarter  read — and  in  great  displeasure.  I  know  not  why, 
but  I  believed  that  she  must  have  read  it;  and  I  could 
not  suppress  a  resentful  swelling  of  the  heart,  to 
think  how  I  had  been  deceived  in  her.  I  pursued  her 
to  her  carriage; — she  was  a  good  deal  disturbed;  her 
haughtiness  disappeared — her  voice  trembled — nay,  I 
will  not  swear  that  there  was  riot  a  filling  of%her  beauti- 
ful eyes — when  she  shut  herself  in.  By  the  Being  that  made 
me,  Omar,  I  would  have  gone  down  on  my  knees  in  the 
dust,  before  I  would  have  touched  that  woman's  heart, 
unkindly — Had  I  believed  that  it  was  modesty,  the  sweet 
bashfulness  of  a  naked  feeling — I  would  sooner  have  died, 
than  doubted  or  tried  her.  But-r-1  could  not  believe 
this.  She  had  travelled.  She  had  read.  She  had  seen 
pictures.  The  book  was  no  such  mighty  matter.  I  had 
told  the  truth — and  she  ought  to  have  believed  me;  or, 
at  least,  have  manifested  a  less  suspicious  resentment. — 
One  that  had  an  unsullied  heart; — one  that  was  inex- 
perienced;—one  whom  1  truly,  and  from  the  bottom  of 
my  heart,  respected,  had  read  it.  Yet,  when  she  returned 
it  to  me — her  simple,  sweet  admonition,  was  only  this. — 
"There  is  your  book.  I  suppose  that  I  ougbt  to  be  of- 
fended;— but  I  do  not  avail  myself  of  the  privilege/' 

'  "Thus  much  for  this  matter ." 

Good  night,  Frank. — Tomorrow,  I  shall  recommence. 

Morning 

The  next  affair  is  a  trifle  in  comparison.     I  cannot 
bring  myself  to  regard  it  seriously.    No,  Mr.  Omar;  I 
B  B 


£94  RANDOLPH. 

have  much  to  repent  of— much  to  lament,  in  sorrow  and 
humiliation;  but  I  have  not  the  weight  of  seduction;  nay, 
nor  of  adultery,  upon  my  soul.  For  this,  I  thank  God. 
Blood,  I  can  bear — but  not  the  breath  of  deflowered  in- 
nocence. Death,  I  could  smile  at;  but  the  writhing  lip 
of  an  abused  husband,  would  be  intolerable  to  me.  He 
might  not  feel — there  are  such  men — but  I,  I  should  feel, 
/should  put  myself  into  his  place; — and  my  heart  would 
dissolve  with  sickness  and  affright.  Would  I  not  be 
avenged? — I  would. — But  how? — Not  by  letting  out  the 
blood  of  my  betrayers,  upon  the  very  sheets  that  they  had 
profaned.  No —  that  were  the  revenge  of  a  boy — a  fool. 
No! — but  I  would  sit  down,  calmly  by  them;  call  up  my 
children — strangle  them,  one  by  one,  in  her  presence — 
and  die — die  at  her  very  feet.  But  not  a  hair  of  her  head 
would  I  touch,  in  wrath. — No — she  that  had  once  slept 
upon  my  bosom,  should  never  see  mine  heaving  angrily 
with  her. — I  sould  speak  no  loud  word — shed  no  tear — 
it  may  be;  but,  with  my  babes,  unpolluted,  upnrofaned,  F 

would  abandon  her,  and  go  to  heaven — as  I  might. 

But,  let  me  return;  my  feelings  carry  me  away. 

It  happened,  one  day,  that  I  had  some  gentlemen  to 
dine  with  me.  I  was  a  brute  and  a  fool,  and  got  drunk. 
They,  however,  were  less  discreet  than  I;  for  1  discover- 
ed it,  and  went,  as  1  thought,  to  my  own  room,  to  bed. 
It  was  late  in  the  afternoon.  While  there,  I  had  an  in- 
distinct notion,  that  some  woman  was  continually  dis- 
turbing me.  I  arose — made  a  dead  set  at  one  that  I  saw, 
anil  tore  the  handkerchief  from  her  bosom.  She  was 
frightened,  I  dare  say;  broke  away,  and  left  me,  sprawl- 
ing, near  the  fire  place.  The  next  day,  I  heard  the  truth. 
I  had  gone  to  a  wrong  room;  and  a  vulgar  girl  had 
been  sent -to  the  closet  for  something.  I  made  my 
apology  to  her  mistress;  and  all  passed  off  very  pleasant- 
ly, until,  one  evening,  when  I  saw  the  same  girl,  busying 
herself  in  a  manner  that  amused  me,  not  a  little,  near 
my  chamber,  in  such  a  manner,  that  I  was  sure  to  see 
her.  I  had  no  respect  for  her,  and  felt,  I  confess,  rather 
inclined  for  a  game  of  romps.  I  invited  her  into  my  room, 
to  set  a  button  on  my  collar.  This,  I  gave,  as  an  excuse 


RANDOLPH. 


for  her  —  not  for  myself;  for  I  knew  that  she  wanted  to 
come  in.  She  came,  and  I  was  rather  rude  to  her,  I  con- 
fess it  —  yet,  it  was  nothing  more  than  country  girls  are 
bred  up  to  —  a  little  hugging  and  kissing.  She  made  a 
mighty  fuss  about  it  —  to  be  sure  —  considering  her  vul- 
garity and  ugliness;  but  that,  I  have  found  always  to  be 
the  case  —  always  —  the  least  agreeable  are  the  most  un- 
manageable. tier  mistress  too,  took  it  up,  and  carried 
her  head  pretty  high,  for  some  weeks;  but  it  was,  at  last, 
wisely  forgotten,  for  just  what  it  was,  a  foolish,  not  a 
wicked  frolick.  No—  they  who  know  me,  know  this  — 
that  if  I  would  —  that  is,  if  I  had  set  my  heart  upon  such 
wickedness,  there  would  have  been  no  arresting  me  in 
my  course.  Blood  —  danger  —  death,  I  should  have  laugh- 
ed at. 

The  next  case  is  quite  serious;  but,  notwithstanding 
my  transgression,  at  first,  I  do  contend,  that,  when  the 
whole  story  is  known,  it  is  honourable  to  me.  I  met  with 
a  fine  looking  woman,  in  the  stage  coach.  Her  child  was 
with  her.  I  entered  into  conversation  with  her  —  and, 
before  we  arrived  at  Salem,  in  New  England,  where  I 
intended  to  stop,  my  "veins  ran  lightning."  I  sat  next 
to  her,  upon  the  same  seat;  and,  when  I  alighted,  her 
hand  trembled  —  her  frame  shook  —  and  there  was  a  pulse 
to  her  finger-ends.  She  said,  in  a  voice  scarcely  audi- 
ble —  "Good  night!  —  I  am  sorry  that  you  are  to  leave  us." 
She  told  the  truth.  She  was  sorry.  It  went  to  my 
heart.  I  had  kept  up  her  spirits,  for  many  a  weary  mile. 
I  had  just  learnt  her  name,  and  found  that  I  knew  some- 
thing of  her  family.  It  was  very  respectable.  It  was 
getting  dark,  and  she  would  be  nearly  alone  in  the  car- 
riage. I  was  not  sorry  to  find,  that,  if  I  staid  at  all,  I 
must  stay  all  the  next  day;  a  thing  that  I  could  not  do; 
for  I  was  pledged  to  be  in  Boston.  I  entered,  the  carri- 
age again.  I  do  not  tell  you  how  I  prevailed;  but,  I  did 
prevail  on  this  woman,  to  consent  to  see  me,  the  fol- 
lowing night,  at  a  very  respectable  house,  where  she  w  as 
to  introduce  me,  as  a  relation  of  her  husband  —  and  by 
my  true  name  —  for  I  never  use  disguise  at  such  moments. 
Confidence  begets  confidence,  even  in  the  worthless.  I 


296  RANDOLPH. 

left  her.  I  went  to  bed;  but  I  could  not  sleep.  I  felt 
that  I  was  about  to  be  a  villain.  I  was  afraid  to  be  one; 
yes,  afraid,  to  be  so  base  a  thing,  as  the  destroyer  of  a 
husband's  honour; — so  damnable  a  thing,  as  the  blaster 
of  a  family's  peace.  I  resolved  to  break  my  promise. — 
It  went  hard  with  me;  harder,  to  break  my  word,  than 
to  abstain  from  crime.  But — look  at  me,  Omar.  I 
never  saw  that  woman  afterward.  To  this  hour,  we 
have  never  met.  What  think  you  now,  of  my  self-com- 
mand-—of  my  principles? 

For  the  next,  my  heart  bleeds.  It  was  a  shameful  thing 
in  me.  Yet  I  was  neither  guilty,  nor  meditated  guilt. 
It  was  mc^ly  an  unhallowed  curiosity;  that  spirit  which 
has  twice  brought  me  to  the  very  brink  of  perdition. — 
Let  me  beware  of  the  third  time.  My  good  angel  may 
be  weary,  and  let  go  her  hold,  at  last!  But  the  facts  are 
simply  the^e.  I  was  in  the  country.  I  had  the  pros- 
pect of  a  dreary  evening  before  me,  at  a  tavern,  where  I  had 
put  up.  Some  person  happened  to  mention  that  there 
was  a  quilting  in  the  neighbourhood — I  inquired  the  way; 
it  was  some  distance;  and,  with  my  usual  indifference  to 
consequences,  I  hunted  up  the  house,  entered  and  joined, 
heart  in  hand,  with  their  frolicking.  There  were  only 
two  rooms.  Both  were  open,  and  both  were  crowded. 
In  one,  was  a  bed,  upon  which  those  that  were  tired  of 
dancing,  threw  themselves,  without  any  kind  of  ceremo- 
ny, i  was  inconceivably  diverted,  at  the  flings  and 
flourishes  that  I  saw; — and  the  house  shook  as  if  it  had 
an  ague.  It  stood  high,  upon  four  piles  of  block;  and  the 
windows  rattled  to  our  dancing,  like  a  cart  of  loose  iron, 
over  a  paved  road.  However,  I  shall  not  attempt  to  des- 
cribe it.  1  was  ready  for  any  thing,  and  made  some  ad- 
vances to  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  room.  Her  lov- 
er sat  by  her,  a  sheepish  looking,  handsome  felloe;  and 
she  repulsed  me  with  rudeness..  This — from  a  woman, 
and  a  pretty  woman  too,  was  never  very  palatable  to  me. 
I  determined  to  be  avenged.  But  no  opportunity  oc- 
curred. I  was  on  the  point,  indeed,  of  abandoning  her, 
and  going  home  with  another  warm  hearted,  affection- 
ate creature,  who,  as  I  helped  her  upon  her  horse,  re- 


RANDOLPH.  297 

turned  my  embrace,  with  a  timidity  that  disturbed  my 
philosophy  most  cruelly.  But— she  was  pretty — and  T 
trembled  to  trespass  upon  her  loveliness;  for  she  had 
treated  me,  imprudently,  to  be  sure,  hut  not  haughtily. 
I  let  her  escape  me; — and,  unwilling  to  return  to  my 
uncomfortable  lodging,  I  pushed  on,  after  the  company 
had  gone,  to  a  house  at  a  distance,  where  I  saw  a  light. 
I  entered,  and  met  a  man  who  knew  me;  a  man,  who  had 
been  indelicate  enough,  but  a  few  evenings  before,  to 
leave  me,  deliberately,  and  pointedly,  alone,  with  his 
daughter,  for  a  whole  evening.  He  invited  me  to  join 
in  a  game  at  cards.  I  detest  cards.  Once,  I  loved  them 
— I  gambled — repented,  and  abandoned  them.  I  refused. 
In  sauntering  ahout  the  house,  I  entered  a  room  dimly 
lighted,  in  which  I  saw  a  woman  and  a  man,  sitting  toge- 
ther, in  silence,  hy  a  stove.  I  approached.  It  was  the  very 
girl! — It  was  her  lover!  My  heart  beat  hurriedly.  Here 
then  was  the  opportunity  I  wanted.  Some  bad,  very  bad 
thoughts  went  through  my  heart — but  they  rested  not. 
They  were  of  evil  omen — and  were  scared  away  by  each 
other.  Yet  something,  I  was  determined  to  do.  I  prepar- 
ed rny  plan.  *  *  *  *  I  do  not  say  how  I  succeeded; — 
but  I  did  succeed,  as  far  as  I  wished.  1  persuaded  that 
girl,  a  modest,  sweet  girl,  who  had  scorned  me,  hut  a 
few  minutes  bejfore,  to  abandon  her  lover,  and  enter  a 
remote  apartment  in  the  same  building,  with  me*  a  stran- 
ger. I  will  not  trouble  you  with  the  particulars.  I 
will  only  say  that  she  refused  to  go — and  that  I  went, 
nevertheless,  and  waited  for  her,  assured  that  she  would 
come.  She  did  come.  The  room,  was  large; — the  win- 
dows were  opposite  to  each  other;  and /here  was  a  piazza 
in  front.  I  was  afraid  of  being  seen,  and  led  her  to  a 
corner — and  was  laughing  and  whispering  witli  her, 
innocently,  upon  my  honour,  when  we  heard  her  fa- 
ther's voice.  He  approached.  She  was  half  frightened 
to  death.  He  came  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  near  the  door, 
and  called.  I  know  not  what  he  suspected.  But  my 
mind  was  instantly  made  up,  to  an  unpleasant  retribu- 
tion. In  such  cases,  1  never  flinch.  K?,  opened  the  door; 
and  I  walked  out,  under  his  arm,  under  the  very  flam* 


£98  BANDOLPH. 

beau  that  lie  held! — He  stood  like  one  thunderstruck. — 
The  door  of  the  opposite  room  was  open.  The  man  of 
whom  I  hefore  spoke,  sat  fronting  it,  with  his  hands  up. 
He  saw  me  come  out — and  the  next  moment,  he  saw  the 
affrighted  girl  follow  me.  He  dropped  his  cards.  Can 
you  wonder  at  it?  The  thought  went  into  his  heart  like 
a  knife.  Here  was  I,  the  acquaintance  of  ten  minutes, 
found  in  a  dark  room  with  a  girl.  Could  he  ever  forget 
that  he  had  purposely  exposed  his  only  daughter  to  me, 
for  hours? 

Mr.  Omar— I  do  reproach  myself  for  this.  I  did  then. 
And  had  the  father  fallen  upon  me,  on  the  spot,  I  should 
scarcely  have  lifted  my  hand  against  him,  even  in  de- 
fence of  my  life.  Yes — though  my  intentions  were  in- 
nocent— by  this  I  mean  that  I  would  not  have  wronged 
the  honour  of  that  girl,  yet  I  did  what  was  worse.  I  cor- 
rupted her  heart.  I  blotted  out  her  delicacy.  I  breathed 
upon  her  lips — and  her  heart  was  in  a  thaw.  For  this, 
I  shall  never  forgive  myself.  It  was  cold  blooded,  atro- 
oious  vanity  in  me.  How  happened  it,  that  I  prevail- 
ed? I'll  tell  you.  A  modest  woman  has  no  experience 
in  the  ways  of  men.  She  is  therefore  more  submissive, 
and  obedient.  What  I  demanded  of  this  poor  girl,  was 
demanded  with  that  air  of  consummate  ease,  which  cannot 
be  resisted,  by  the  inexperienced.  Ask  a  woman  for  any 
favour,  as  if  you  are  not  sure  of  it,  and  she  will  refuse 
you,  of  course;  but  demand  it,  as  if  you  have  not  the 
slightest  thought  of  refusal,  and  it  is  ten  to  one  that  she 
grants  it,  as  a  matter  of  course.  If  she  be  inexperienced, 
she  fancies  that  it  would  be  ill-bred.  Take  an  example.  If 
you  kiss  her  lips  without  making  any  fuss  about  it — she 
bears  it  patiently.  But  if  you  ask  leave,  or  tremble,-^ 
or  look  at  her  with  half-shut  eyes — she  will  never  yield. 
Why? — in  the  first  place,  she  feels  that  there  is  guiltiness 
in  it;  and  in  the  next,  she  thinks,  that  you  expect  resistance. 
She  is  obliged  to  resist  therefore,  and  always  does  resist,, 
just  as  far  as  she  imagines  that  you  expect  resistance. — 
If  you  consider  it  a  mighty  favour,  she  does,  too.  If 
v;»u  take  it,  as  a  rational  contribution,  she  pays  it  with 
the  same  carelessness.  Thus,  in  the  childish  pastime  of 


RANDOLPH.  299 

Redeeming  forfeits,  kisses  go  for  nothing — gracious  God! 
innocent  lips,  and  soft  eyes,  are  profaned  by  a  succession 
of  greasy  slobbering  rascals,  without  emotion  or  shame. 
Yet  the  same  girls  will  go  deadly  sick  at  the  heart,  and 
feel  themselves  irretrievably  dishonoured,  if  you  should 
ravish  a  kiss  from  them,  alone,  in  the  dark.  So  true  it 
is,  that  we  value  most  things,  just  as  we  see  others  value 
them. 

The  next  matter,— rl  know  not  what  to  say  to  it.  It 
is  a  false  and  cruel  slander;  but,  I  have  heard  it  before* 
and  it  is  my  duty  to  put  an  end  to  it.  I  loved.  The 
woman  that  I  loved,  married  another.  I  never  saw  her 
husband.  Years  had  passed,  since  I  had  seen  her.  By 
accident,  however,  I  heard  that  she  was  on  a  visit  near 
me.  [  was  willing  to  see  her — but  not  secretly.  To  the 
house  where  she  dwelt,  I  would  not  go.  I  had  said  so, 
and  kept  ray  promise.  There  was  one  evening — one,  that 
I  knew  she  would  remember.  It  was  that,  on  which, 
I  had  always  met  her,  whenever  I  met  her  at  all.  I  went, 
on  that  evening,  to  the  house  of  a  friend.  I  expected  her; 
and  she  came.  She  had  been  to  church,  but  passed  me 
on  the  way.  She  went  to  the  church,  but  could  not  stay 
there.  We  met.  I  was  just  as  composed,  as  self-possessed, 
as  at  this  moment.  I  spoke  to  her  as  I  was  wont.  Yet 
my  voice  trembled  not.  I  took  her  hand  for  a  moment; 
mine  did  not  shake — but  hers  did,  I  spoke  of  her  hus- 
band,— her  child;  I  desired  to  see  them  both.  He  was 
not  in  town;  and  her  babe,  I  could  not  see,  unless  she 
would  send  him  where  we  then  were;  for  I  would  not, 
she  knew  that  well,  set  my  foot  within  the  door  of  the 
house  where  she  dwelt.  She  promised  to  send  her  babe, 
where  I  desired.  The  next  day,  I  went  there — I  found 
the  child,  and  the  mother.  I  sat  with  them;  and  was 
constantly  in  the  presence  of  the  nurse,  and  one  or  two  la- 
dies. This  was  our  assignation!  Out  of  that  friendly 
and  affectionate  interview,  during  which  we  were  not 
alone  for  a  single  moment,  (nor  have  we  been  since  her  ' 
marriage,)  has  been  fabricated  a  story  of  tremendous  em- 
phasis. It  is  said  that  we  were  utterly  overcome; — that  we 
wept,  and  perhaps  embraced; — that  I  took  her  babe,  and 


000  RANDOLPH. 

cryed  over  it — I! .    No,  Mr.  Omar,  you  shall  judge 

of  this  passionate  self  abandonment;  by  some  part  of  our 
conversation.  She  had  beautiful  hair,  and  eyes,  dark 
and  melancholy; — her  husband's  eyes  and  hair,  and  com- 
plexion were  all  dark  and  masculine.  But  the  eyes  of 
the  child  were  blue,  like  mine; — his  hair  the  bright  co- 
lour of  raw  silk,  and  his  complexion  transparent.  Some 
fool  spoke  of  it.  I  felt  the  allusion;  and,  to  spare  her  dis- 
tress, immediately  observed  aloud,  that  I  did  not  believe 
she  loved  her  boy  the  less  for  his  blue  eyes  and  yellow 
hair.  I  promised,  in  the  same  tone,  to  adopt  him.  We 
parted.  Was  she  imprudent?  No — so  entirely  circum- 
spect was  she,  that  I  never  so  thoroughly  and  heartily 
respected  her,  as  then.  Nay — the  very  evening  before, 
when  she  was  about  to  leave  the  house,  it  was  altogether 
more  convenient  that  she  should  go  alone,  with  me;  yet,  she 
had  the  wisdom  to  insist  upon  another  lady's  going  with 
us.  She  was  right,  our  walk  would  have  been  innocent: 
innocent  in  thought,  word  and  deed — for  the  truth  of  this, 

1  can  appeal  to  our  Maker — but  she  had  a  husband.  He 
might  have  heard  af  it,— and  might  have  been  disturbed, 
Nay— there  were  other  reasons.     I  was  told,  and  I  be- 
lieve it,  that  her  husband  never  had  heard  my  name  pro- 
nounced; that  he  knew  not  of  my  love  for  his  wife,  when 
it  was  lawful  to  love  her.  There  was  yet  something  else, 
something  that  I  learnt  from  one  that  knew  her  well,  aiK1 
slept  with   her — something    that*    after  her  marriage 

to  another,  I  ought  never  to  have  known but  enougt 

to  make  it  wise,  that  we  should  never  meet,  however  hap- 
py she  might  be,  or  however  assured  and  confident  1 
might  be. 

Yet — we  have  met  since — met,  under  circumstances, 
that  the  wicked  of  heart,  may  as  easily  misinterpret. — 
But  another  was  with  me.  I  met  her  as  a  friend; — my 
heart  heaved,  to  be  sure,  for  there  were  many  deep  and 
passionate  recollections  in  it; — my  fingers  thrilled  when 
our  hands  met,  and  the  maturity  and  dignity  of  the  wo- 
man had  not  entirely  overcome  the  witchery  and  fascin- 
ation of  the  gi;  I. Let  her  beware.  She  is  yet  in  peril, 

And  it  were  no  light  matter  for  such  a  woman,  one  who 


RANDOLPH.  301 

might  have  stood  very  loftily  among  women,  to  err,  even 
a  hair's  breadth,  from  the  inflexible  line.  We  may  ne- 
ver meet  again.  It  is  probable  that  \ve  never  shall. — 
But  there  are  others,  more  dangerous  to  a  protid  spirit. 
But  why  dwell  upon  the  memory  of  the  past.  It  is  cloudy 
and  cold,  to  the  eye.  And  I  care  not  how  soon  it  is 
forgotten. — One  thing,  I  forgot.  It  is  true  that  she  did 
arise  from  her  bed,  to  receive  me.  But  why— -I  was  not 
alone,  nor  was  it  late.  But  she  was  wearied,  and  had 
thrown  herself  down  for  a  few  moments,  to  recruit  her- 
self for  the  duties  of  a  sick  chamber.  See  how  the  world 
will  torture  the  blessedest  and  sweetest  movement  of  the 
heart. 

The  next  girl — how  shall  I  speak  of  her?  I  did  not 
love  her;  but,  in  time,  I  might  have  loved  her.  She 
was  a  child,  inexperienced,  affectionate,  and  so  far  as  I 
eould  judge,  from  a  short  acquaintance,  had  a  good  mind. 
I  treated  her  like  a  sister.  I  was  willing  to  be  useful 
to  her; — and,  after  some  conversation  with  her,  about  a 
course  of  reading,  I  offered  to  direct  her  in  it.  But — 
how  should  I  proceed?  She  had  a  father,  a  rough,  plain 
man,  who  was  very  dear  to  her,  and  of  whom  she  was 
the  idol.  I  wrote  to  him,  and  enclosed  a  letter  for  his 
(laughter,  desiring  his  permission  to  correspond  with  her. 
There  was  no  mystery;  nothing  unfair  in  my  thought. — 
I  dealt  plainly  with  him,  and,  as  an  honest  man.  I 
knew  that  I  could  be  of  use  to  his  child,  and  I  was  willing 
to  be.  I  told  him  that  I  should  not  mention  love  in  my 
letters,  nor  attempt  to  be  sentimental; — they  should  all 
pass  through  his  hands;  that  I  liked  his  daughter,  but  that 
before  I  could  lorve  her,  I  must  know  more  of  her.  To  do 
this,  there  were  only  two  ways; — to  visit  her,  or  to  cor- 
respond with  her.  The  first  I  could  not  do; — and  the 
latter  was  the  surest,  and  most  secret.  I  gave  him  refer- 
ences too,  for  his  own  security. 

The  good  man  could  not  comprehend  me,  it  seemed. — 
He  had  no  idea  of  a  rational  correspondence  by  letter; — 
a  conversation,  on  paper,  between  a  man  and  woman,  who 
had  not  made  up  their  minds  to  be  married  outright. — 
So  he  told  me,  very  plainly,  that  he  could  not  understand 


30S  RANDOLPH. 

my  rigmarole; — and  that,  if  I  had  any  notion  of  address- 
ing his  daughter,  I  must  come  upon  the  ground. 

My  reply  was  very  brief.  I  told  him,  that  he  had 
misunderstood  me — that  I  had  no  idea  of  addressing  his 
daughter,  and  \vonld  not  go  upon  the  ground. 

It  was  a  pity.  She  afterwards  ran  away,  and  marri- 
ed— no  matter  how.  I  never  spoke  to  her  again;  and 
I  hope  that  the  father  has  never  yet  had  reason  to  repent 
of  his  conduct  to  me. — Yet,  her  mother  believes  that  she 
loved  me,  more  than  her  husband,  even  when  she  married 
him.  Some  things  have  came  to  my  knowledge,  howev- 
er, that  I  think  must  disturb  him,  at  times.  1  have  seen 
his  daughter  since — more  than  once — but  I  did  not 
speak  with  her;  for  I  had  ceased  to  respect  her.  I  pitied 
her,  in  my  heart,  and  would  have  done  much  for  her  hap- 
piness; but  there  were  many  reasons  why  I  should  ?.void 
her.  Beside,  she  was  afraid  to  meet  me;  I  know  that 
she  was;  and,  much  as  she  desired  to  see  me,  after  her 
marriage,  I  know  that  she  would  have  trembled  from 
head  to  foot,  to  meet  my  eye;  for  she  knew  my  senti- 
ments on  that  subject.  She  had  heard  me  reprobate 
these  runaway  matches — with  no  matter  whom.  They 
are  never  happy.  The  element  of  happiness  is  polluted: 
that  confidence,  which,  like  the  pure  spring  water, 
wells  out  of  the  young  heart,  when  it  is  first  smitten, — 
that  is  defiled  at  the  source — when  disobedience  to  a 
parent  hath  once  mingled  with  it. — It  is  that  infidelity, 
which,  in  its  eating  cruelty,  causes  the  heartstrings  to  re- 
lax and  decay,  in  silence. — It  was  that — that,  which 
made  Othello  doubt  his  love.  She  had  deceived  her  fa- 
ther—the kindest  father!— What  might  a  husband  look 
for?--no,  Omar,  no.  Wo,  to  the  man  that  sleeps  upon 
a  pilfered  heart. — It  is  liable  to  dissolve,  and  pass  away, 
in  a  midnight  vapour,  at  the  first  approach  of  tempta- 
tion; or— if  its  pulse  be  faithful,  there  will  be  distrust; 
and  distrust  will  work  that,  in  time,  which  sensuality, 
temptation,  and  death,  itself,  might  never  have  wrought 
together — an  entire  corruption  at  the  core — a  wish  for 
freedom.  When  thai  wish  is  once  felt — no  matter  how 
secretly,  in  the  deep  places  of  the  heart,  that  instant 


RANDOLPH.  303 

there  is  murder  and  adultery  there.  Tt  may  perish  as 
the  body  perislieth,  without  blossom  or  fruit;  but — the 
thought  hath  sinned;  and  the  flower  is  bloody,  and  pol- 
luted therewith  from  that  moment,  as  effectually,  as  if 
the  man,  who  slept  upon  her  chains,  and  sentinelled  her 
spirit,  had  been  strangled,  sleeping,  with  her  own 
hands. 

I  say  nothing  of  her  imprudences.  I  know  nothing  of 
them.  The  world  are  forever  busy  with  invention;  and 
I  have  had  sufficient  experience  already,  never  to  depend 
upon  any  report.  She  is  young,  and  if  she  be  kindly 

treated,  may  yet  make  an  exemplary  woman 

good  night."— Here  we  parted  for  a  time. 

THURSDAY  EVENING. — I  was  to  go  to  a  ball  this  even- 
ing, dear  Frank,  but  I  am  weary  of  dancing,  and  glad  of 
an  opportunity  to  renew  the  narrative  of  Molton.  We 
are  jiearly  through  now. — He  proceeded  as  follows. 

"My  accuser  is  indefatigable— yet  there  is  an  air  of 
candour  in  his  representation,  which  is  very  imposing, 
I  confess.  The  next  in  order,  if  I  recollect  right  —but 
here  are  my  minutes— yes,  the  next  in  order,  is  the 
most  disgraceful  affair  of  my  whole  life.  Yet  it  shall 
be  told;  and  told  too,  without  embellishment.  F  found  a 
woman,  of  singular  power,  in  distress,  desolate,  afflicted 
and  desperate. 

She  told  me  her  story.  I  did  not  believe  her;  but,  an 
accident  happened  soon  after,  to  make  me  pay  attention 
to  it;  and  I  took  some  pains  to  discover  the  truth.  I 
found  that  she  was  of  an  excellent  family;  that  I  knew 
some  of  her  relations;  and,  in  short,  after  a  correspond- 
ence, into  which  I  entered  witli  a  cousin  of  hers,  I  found 
so  much  to  confirm  and  corroborate  her  story,  with  no- 
thing to  contradict  it,  that  I  determined  to  save  her,  if  I 
could. — If  you  have  the  patience,  I  will  detain  you,  a  mo- 
ment, upon  her  story.  From  her  very  childhood,  she  had 
been  fond  of  her  destroyer.  He  pursued  her,  until  he 
was  forbidden  the  house.  She  lived  -with  her  uncle. 
She  had  been  to  the  wedding  of  a  female  relation,  one 
evening;  and  met  him,  for  the  first  time,  after  many 
weeks,  while  she  was  returning.  He  proposed  an  elope* 


304  RANDOLPH. 

ment.  It  were  idle  to  repeat  his  arguments.  Enough  .to 
say,  that  he  prevailed;  and,  that  she  consented  to  make  it, 
that  very  night.  She  returned  to  her  uncle's.  It  was  the 
custom  of  the  family,  to  assign  a  particular  lamp  to  eacli 
member.  Hers  was  a  little  brass  one.  1  mention  these 
trivial  incidents,  because  they  made  an  impression  upon 
me,  and  gave  an  air  of  circumstantial  reality  to  her  sto- 
ry. She  was  disturbed and,  when  her  uncle  kissed 

her,  as  was  his  habit,  and  bade  her  good  night,  she  took 
up  his  lamp,  instead  of  her  own,  in  her  disorder,  and  ran 
up  stairs.  She  was  just  entering  her  room,  when  she 
heard  his  voice.  Yes!- — he  was  calling  to  her.  She  could 
have  fallen  upon  her  face,  in  her  terrour,  and  confessed 
the  whole — for  she  was  sure  that  the  secret  purpose  of 
her  mind,  had  been,  in  some  unaccountable  manner,  re- 
vealed to  him.  She  obeyed  the  summons.  Her  heart 
smote  her;  and  she  stood  before  her  venerable  uncle. — 
"Why  Lucy,"  said  he,  "thy  wits  must  be  wool-gather- 
ing.— Thee  has  got  my  lamp."  It  was  true.  Her  plan 
was  not  discovered;  and  she  was  like  one  restored  to  life. 
She  went  to  bed,  cheerfully,  confirmed  and  established 
in  her  plan.  When  all  was  still,  so  still,  that  she  could 
hear  the  beating  of  her  own  heart,  she  took  her  shoes  in 
her  hand,  and  prepared  to  descend.  But,  how  was  she 
to  escape?  f  f  she  passed  out  the  front  way,  there  was 
her  uncle's  door,  always  left  open;  and  he  awake,  if  a 
mouse  stirred.  That  would  not  do.  But  the  back  way; 
she  must  pass  through  the  servants'  room,  if  she  went 
that  way.  But,  that  way  she  went.  She  passed  the 
sleepers  on  tip-toe;  one  awoke,  and  asked  "who's  there?" 
But,  she  hushed  her  heart,  and  held  her  hreath,  till  all 
was  quiet  again — and  pursued  her  way.  She  came  to 
the  bath-house;  it  was  protected  by  Venetian  blinds.  She 
pushed  one  open,  and  got  out,  and  stood  upon  a  pump. 
From  the  pump,  she  stepped  down  upon  the  ground. 
And  here,  she  had  well  nigh  fainted.  A  great  dog,  of 
which  she  was  terribly  afraid,  arose  and  shook  himself, 
near  her;  but  he  appeared  instantly  to  recognize  her,  and 
lay  down  agam»  with  a  sullen  growl.  She  came  to  the 
gate.  It  was  fastened — a  thfng  that  she  might  have 


RANDOLPH.  305 

known — and  she  had  not  the*  power  to  unfasten  it.  There 
was  a  hole  cut  through,  to  let  the  dog  out  and  in,  however; 
and,  through  that  hole,  literally  upon  her  face,  she  final- 
ly squeezed  herself.  Her  lover  was  at  hand.  They 
ascended  the  carriage,  and  were  soon  beyond  the  reach 
of  pursuit.  Search  warrants,  under  the  state  authority, 
were  taken  out;  and  the  whole  country  was  ransacked 
for  her.  She  fell  sick  with  terrour  and  fatigue.  It  was 
impossible  that  she  could  be  married  in  that  state;  and 
it  was  necessary,  in  her  timidity,  that  he  should  pass  for 
her  husband,  to  justify  their  being  together;  and  that 
they  should  sleep,  at  least,  in  the  same  room,  during  her 
illness.  She  recovered — but  her  ruin  was  accomplished. 
He  spoke  of  marriage; — but,  perhaps  it  was  fancy — she 
thought  that  his  eyes  contradicted  his  words;  and  she 
refused  to  marry  him.  They  lived  together.  She  bore 
him  two  children.  But,  the  arrow  of  remorse  was  in 
her  heart.  She  besought  a  reconciliation.  She  was  ac- 
cepted— returned  to  her  home.  But  there  was  no  com- 
fort. Their  very  kindness  was  a  reproach  to  her.  Yet, 
she  bore  it; — bore  the  solitude  of  shame  and  desolation, 
for  a  long  time,  till  she  was  insulted — insulted! — and, 
desperate  with  passion,  she  abjured  her  home,  forever; 
and  fled  again,  to  the  bosom  of  her  destroyer. 

It  was  then,  that  I  met  her.  She  was  delirious— -be- 
set on  all  sides — and  ready  to  raise  her  hand  against 
her  awn  life.  I  determined  to  interpose.  But  how? — 
There  was  only  one  way.  I  must  acquire  an  absolute 
dominion  over  her.  I  must  make  her  love  me — love  me, 
better  than  aught  in  heaven,  or  earth.  I  succeeded.—*- 
But,  before  I  tell  you  what  were  the  consequences,  allow 
me  to  relate  one  or  two  anecdotes.  It  will  show  you  the 
character  of  her  mind  and  temper.  When  quite  a  chili!, 
she  took  her  little  sweetheart  by  the  hand,  and  journied 
with  him,  all  over  the  city,  after  a  man  to  marry  them! 
They  met  an  aged  Friend.  "Please  to  tell  us,  sir,"  sail 
she.  sobbing,  "where  the?man  lives,  that  marries  peo- 
ple?" The  good  man  put  them  on  their  way,  in  the  sim- 
plicity of  his  heart,  without  further  questioning.  But 
they  were  lost.  It  grew  dark;  and  she  and  her  little 
Cc 


306  RANDOLPH. 

cousin,  and  her  future  betrayer,  all  nestled  and  cuddled 
together,  upon  some  steps — and  crying  lustily,  were 
found  by  an  older  cousin,  who  was  passing,  on  horse- 
back. "Why,  in  the  name  of  wonder!"  said  he,  "chil- 
dren, where  have  you  come  from?  what  are  you  doing?" 
"We  have  been  to — to — to  get  ma — ma — ri — ed!"  was 
the  reply. 

The  other  anecdote  follows.  She  lived  alone,  in  a  de- 
serted house.  A  murder  had  been  committed  in  the 
next  room.  She  dreamt,  one  night,  that  the  devil  ap- 
peared at  her  bed  side,  and  bade  her  awake,  and  get  upj 
for  he  wanted  some  conversation  with  her.  She  was 
a  good  deal  frightened,  at  first;  though  the  devil  was  a 
handsome,  gentlemanly  looking  fellow,  enough;  but  he 
bade  her  be  quiet;  and  assured  her,  that  he  had  no  other 
business,  than  a  little  chat  with  her.  She  arose,  went 
into  the  next  room — kindled  a  roaring  fire;  and  the  devil 
placed  a  chair  for  her,  in  one  corner;  and  another,  for 
himself,  opposite.  He  was  quite  facetious,  for  a  time, 
"Now,  really,"  said  she,  "I  cannot  believe  that  you  are 
the  devil.  Let's  see  your  foot; — come — up  with  your 
hoof."  He  gave  a  sort  of  a  whisk,  and  put  his  hoof  in 
her  lap.  "Lord! — as  I  am  alive — so  it  is! — Well — you 
are  the  devil,  sure  enough;  but,  after  all,  quite  an  agree- 
able one — so ."  "Stop — "  said  he. — "Do  you  see 

that  brick? — mark  it."  She  obeyed.  She  took  a  nail, 
and  scratched  it.  "Under  that  brick,"  said  the  devil, 
"is  a  pot  of  money. — Good  night."  He  arose,  and  stood 
in  the  door- way,  holding  on,  by  the  top  of  the  door,  which 
was  partly  open.  The  light  shone  on  his  face.  It  was 
very  terrible.  "In  that  room,"  said  he,  "there — in  that 
further  corner — "  she  was  afraid  to  look — "a  man  dies, 
every  night.  At  twelve  o'clock,  I  come  to  meet  him, — 
It  is  now  nearly  twelve." 

She  awoke;  a  bright  fire  was  burning,  in  the  next  room, 
where  there  was  no  fire,  and  no  wood,  when  she  went 
to  bed! — There  were  the  two  chairs! — placed  exact- 
ly as  she  dreamt. — She  looked  for  the  brick.  It  was 
marked  with  the  nail; — and  the  watchman,  that  instant^ 
cried  twelve  o'clock,  under  her  window! 


RANDOLPH.  307 

She  crept  into  bed,  in  an  agony  of  fear.  She  lay  there, 
quaking,  with  flashes  of  fire  and  smoke,  passing  before 
her  shut  eyes,  continually,  until  day  light;  when  she 
arose,  and  took  up  the  brick,  and  dug,  till  the  founda- 
tions of  the  chimney  were  loosened,  and  she  expected  it  to 
fall  upon  her  head,  every  moment.  But,  she  found  no 
money,  and  never  slept  in  the  house  afterward. 

I  studied  her  mind.  I  formed  a  plan,  full  of  peril  for 
her,  and  a  matter  of  life  and  death  to  me.  She  acceded. 
1  revealed  it,  distinctly,  to  the  dearest  friend  that  I  had, 
on  earth;  but  I  showed  her  the  letter.  "JVo,"  said  she. 
"Here  is  my  last  trial.  Every  thing  in  heaven  and  earth, 
for  me,  depends  upon  this  throw.  I  will  never  make  it, 
unless  with  the  front  of  innocence.  If  your  friend  know 
the  truth,  how  can  I  meet  him?  He  may  not  have  the 
charity  for  me,  that  you  have; — he  may  have  his  friend, 
too; — and  my  shame  is  publick,  the  moment  that  I  ap- 
pear. No — abandon  me,  if  you  will.  I  have  no  claim, 
upon  you.  You  have  saved  my  life,  it  is  true;  and  I  am 
ready  to  lay  it  down,  at  your  bidding.  But  I  will  never 
advance  a  step,  in  this  plan,  unless  you  consent  to  con- 
ceal my  history.*'  I  did  consent.  Wo  to  me,  that  I  didf 
I  am  naturally  ingenuous.  I  hate  mystery.  Stratagem 
is  my  abhorrence.  For  all  that  relates  to  myself,  I  am 
candid  to  a  fault.  I  never  did  that  deed  in  my  life,  which 
I  would  not  have  avowed,  openly,  in  the  light  of  heaven, 
had  I  not  been  deterred  by  my  regard  for  others.  Yet,  I 
consented  to  conceal  the  truth;  nay,  in  carrying  on  this 
concealment — for  who  can  say  where  mystery  shall 
end,  and  falsehood  begin — I  used  deception  and  false- 
hood. But  why?  I  was  not  conscious  of  It.  I  had  gone 
on,  step  by  step,  with  insinuation  and  inuendo,  until  I 
ended  in  assertion.  Yet  this  was  my  comfort.  "I  shall 
prevail,"  said  I.  "I  shall  restore  an  extraordinary  wo- 
man, a  mother -,  a  child,  a  sister,  to  her  own  respect — to 
happiness,  and  to  virtue.  Shall  I  not  be  forgiven,  then? 
Will  not  all,  that  have  had  any  hand  in  the  work  of  re- 
demption, bless  me  for  having  admitted  their  agency? — 
They  will.  Nay ,  Omar,  they  would.  But— it  failed.  It 
failed,  as  every  such  rash  project  must;  and  no  matter  what 
I  might  have  done,  by  perseverance — I  thanjk  God  that  I 


RANDOLPH. 

had  the  good  sense  to  abandon  a  scheme,  so  fruitful  in 
peril  and  disappointment  Yet,  I  plead  guilty  to  it  all. 
J  deceived  more  than  one  noble  heart.  I  abused  the 
proudest  confidence.  1  had  well  nigh  broken  and  shat- 
tered one  brainy  and  sent  a  sister,  and  perhaps  a  mother, 
ashamed  and  weeping,  to  their  grave.  For — would  you 
believe  it— it  was  a  part  of  my  plan,  to  give  this  helpless 
creature,  an  asylum  in  the  mansion  of  my  own  mother; 
and  give  her,  too,  for  her  companion,  the  purity  of  my 
own  sister.  It  was  well  that  I  did  not;—it  would  have 
killed  them.  Yet,  let  me  do  her  justice.  It  was  no  fault 
of  mine,  that  all  this  did  not  happen.  My  plans  were 
matured — my  promises  made — and  I  put  the  question 
fairly  to  her,  without  flinching.  She  determined  wisely. 
<*No,"  said  she,  "I  cannot  enter  the  house  of  innocence — 
I  cannot  pollute  the  abiding  place  of  purity  and  affection. 
Henceforth  I  have  done  with  all  this  dreaming.  You 
have  abandoned  me.  I  expected  it.  You  have  not  de- 
ceived me.  You  told  me  exactly  what  you  would  do; 
what  you  could  do;  and  you  have  done  all  that  you  pro- 
mised, like  a  man,  without  flinching.  God  will  reward 
you  for  it.  I  have  been  slandered — but  1  was  innocent. 
I  long  to  meet  you  once  more — to  throw  myself  into  your 
arms — to  weep  away,  forever,  it  may  be,  the  shame  and 
oppression  that  I  feel  at  the  heart; — but  why  should  I 
wish  it?  J  have  been  too  long  a  burden  to  you.  I  will 
be  so  no  longer.  I  will  return  in  the  path  that  you  have 
opened  for  me.  I  will  go  to  my  home.  I  will  become 
penitent  and  humble;  and,  perhaps,  as  you  have  ^o  kind- 
ly said,  and  so  often,  too,  perhaps — God  will  forgive  me, 
and  I  may  yet  die  in  peace,  supported  upon  the  bosom  of 
a  child,  whose  mother  was  forgiven  for  her  love  of  that 
child.  Farewell !" 

Omar,  you  see  the  extent  of  my  indiscretion.  I  do  not 
pretend  to  justify,  or  to  palliate  it.  I  only  say,  that,  when 
I  sinned,  my  heart  did  not  reproach  me.  There  was  no 
deliberate  wickedness  in  my  disposition.  But,  I  was  a 
fool.  I  was  blotting  and  smearing  my  own  senses — 
dashing  the  perfumed  censer — and  shattering  the  pictur- 
ed vase  of  the  imagination; — profaning  the  loveliness, 


RANDOLPH.  309 

and  mystery,  and  enchantment  of  passton.  Yet,  I  did 
not  tore,  then.  Had  I  loved — righteous  God! — as  soon 
would  I  have  rolled  with  the  festering  leper — fed,  and 
drunk,  and  slept,  in  poison,  and  death,  and  rottenness, 

as  permit  aught  of  impurity,  to  come  near  my  heart. 

That  has  always  been  my  temper — always  will  be.  I 
had  not  even  the  plea  of  passion  or  habitude,  in  my  fa- 
vour. No — my  mind  was  above  such  things.  I  hated 
and  loathed  the  wanton.  There  were  high  and  holy 
places  in  my  thought,  upon  which  nothing  of  earth,  and 
such  earth,  least  of  all,  had  ever  trod;— places,  within  my 
heart,  where  no  unclean  thing  had  ever  nestled.  There 
are  such  places,  yet — untrodden,  but  by  God — unvisited, 
but  by  angels.  There  have  I  enshrined  the  woman  that 
I  love.  Darkness  may  be  there,  and  silence — but  there 
is  no  licentiousness— no  sensuality. 

Yes— ^although  it  is  not  true  that  I  have  pursued  any 
woman,  steadily,  for  a  time;  or  any  one,  without  success, 
or  without  obtaining  what  I  sought-— yet,  it  is  true,  that 
one  had  the  spirit,  the  heroism,  to  trample  upon  my  pow- 
er, even  in  its  excess.  Peace  be  to  her  bosom!  It  was 
a  gentle  one.  She  was  unwise;  but  her  meaning  was 
wisdom;— and  she  plucked  out  my  image,  from  her  gen- 
tle heart,  like  t,  cancer,  by  the  roots.  Is  it  wonderful 
that  her  bosom  is  bleeding  and  sore  yet?  No!— and  to 
the  last  breath  that  she  draws,  it  will  bleed,  with  .every 
sob,  and  every  swell.  Do  I  not  grieve  for  her?  I  do, 
for  she  was  the  only  woman  that  I  had  ever  truly  loved.  I 
observe  your  eyes.  I  make  no  exception;— and  I  reveal 
not  her  name.  I  leave  you  to  imagine  who  it  may  be;  but 
I  leave  it  to  your  imagination  alone.  You  will  never  know 
aught  from  me.  I  shall  never  mention  her  again.  Yes, 
I  loved  her.  I  put  myself  in  her  power.  She  might  have 
used  it  more  gently,  for  I  have  a  proud  heart,  Omar;  and 
it  well  nigh  sunders,  when  jarred  unkindly,  by  one  that 
it  beats  gently  for.  My  voice  trembles — I  am  aware  of 
it — and  the  light  of  the  candle  dashes  athwart  my  eyes, 
unpleasantly—  perhaps  they  are  wet.  It  may  be--but  it 
is  for  the  last  time.  I  loved  that  woman.  I  would  have 
made  her  happy.  I  could — happier  than  any  man,  upon 
this  earth.  But  that  hour  is  past  now.  I  could  weep  for 


310  RANDOLPH. 

her; — the  loss  is  hers.   It  is  irreparable.  Had 
to  be  my  wife,  she  would  never  have  had  reason  to  la- 
ment it;  but let  us  leave  the  subject.     She  is  a  noble 

creature,  and  I  wish  her  all  the  happiness  in  the  world; 
yet,  my  heart  is  heavy,  when  I  think  of  her.  Married 
or  unmarried,  desolate  she  must  be,  for  she  is  learning, 
every  hour,  that  I  told  her  the  truth,  and  that  I  was 
mightily  dealt  with,  for  one  so  haughty  and  devoted. 

But  who  is  she,  with  whom  I  now  live?  It  is  my  wife. 
I  have  no  further  answer.  Let  that  question  pass,  then. 

Yes,  it  is  true.  A  young,  and,  I  believe,  innocent  crea- 
ture, did  put  herself  into  my  way,  with  tears.  I  did  not 
betray  her.  Yet  I  might.  I  did  not  debauch  her;  yet  I 
did  wrong  her;  for  I  trifled  with  the  hidden  tenderness 
of  her  heart.  I  am  sorry  for  it.  I  wrought  t here,  more 
foully,  more  wickedly,  more  like  a  determined  and  expe- 
rienced scoundrel,  than  in  any  other  case.  Yet,  when 
she  was  utterly  mine,  I  forbore.  I  deserve  no  praise  for 
this.  It  is  no  praise  to  forbear  from  blood,  after  pilfering, 
to  excess.  There  is  no  merit  in  withholding  the  blow  of 
death,  when  but  one  blow  is  wanted,  for  the  consumma- 
tion. 

The  story  of  the  nunnery;  and  of  my  being  shot  by 
the  brother  of  one,  whom  I  had  betrayed,  is  a  lie.  Yet,  it 
is  a  lie  of  my  own  coining.  It  arose  out  of  a  simple  fro- 
lick;  but  it  continued,  constantly  augmenting  in  serious- 
ness, till  I  told  a  deliberate  falsehood  to  support  it.  The 
whole  of  that  story  is  a  fabrication. 

The  next  is  a  singular  affair — to  this  moment  an  un- 
accountable one  to  me.  I  was  on  a  friendly  and  familiar 
footing  with  an  intelligent  woman.  It  had  continued  for 
some  time.  I  met  her,  as  usual,  one  evening.  I  saw  no 
change,  nor  shadow  of  change;  but,  the  next  day,  I  re- 
ceived the  following  note:— 

"Since  we  last  met,  circumstances  of  a  peculiar  cha- 
racter have  occurred,  that  render  thy  future  visits  im- 
proper. Do  not  ask  me  why; — but  be  assured  (that)  I 
shall  ever  remember,  with  interest,  our  past  acquaint- 
ance." 

****** 


RANDOLPH.  311 

"Oblige  me  by  not  acquainting  S,  or  any  one  else, 
with  the  contents  of  this." 

There,  Mr.  Omar,  you  now  know  as  much  of  this  mys- 
terious affair,  as  I,  myself,  know.  I  dare  not  even  con- 
jecture the  cause;  yet,  that  there  is  one,  and  an  efficient 
one,  I  can  readily  believe;  for  she  was  a  prudent,  sensi- 
ble, and  high-minded  woman.  There  is  one  thought,  and 
one  alone,  which  lies  buried  in  my  heart,  that  would 
seem  to  throw  some  light  upon  the  matter.  But  that 
thought  is  for  no  other  eye,  than  my  Maker's — not  even 
for  hers.  It  is,  possibly,  the  true  one.  I  replied  to  her 
note.  I  asked  no  questions.  I  only  appealed  to  her  gen- 
erosity. If  I  were  slandered,  it  was  her  duty,  if  it  were 
proper,  to  hear  my  defence.  We  have  never  met,  since. 
I  shall  always  respect  her — always;  and  I  am  sure  that 
she  can  never  cease  to  respect  me.  Her  name  is  not  to 
be  told;  nor  would  I  mention  aught  of  the  circumstance, 
were  it  not  that,  my  own  conduct  may  appear  capricious 
and  unaccountable  to  some  that  know  me.  I  was  inti- 
mate in  the  family.  I  suddenly  ceased  to  see,  or  speak  to 
them.  This  ought  to  be  accounted  for. 

Yes,  it  is  also  true  that  I  have  been  the  cause  of  jeal- 
ousy and  uneasiness  to  more  than  one  married  bosom;— 
but,  on  what  ground,  as  heaven  is  my  witness,  I  cannot 
conjecture.  For  myself,  in  one,  and  the  strongest  case, 
I  can  aver,  that  I  did  not  even  suspect  that  any  human 
being  could  be  jealous  of  me.  It  came  upon  me,  like  a 
thunderclap,  at  last;  and  I  put  myself,  instantly,  beyond 
all  suspicion.  Mr.  Omar — I  have  made  more  than  one 
such  sacrifice  in  my  time,  to  the  idle  and  wicked  terrour 
of  husbands.  More  than  one  woman,  that  was  dear  to 
me,  as  a  friend,  almost  as  a  sister;— more  than  one,  with 
whom  the  extent  of  my  familiarity,  was  a  shake  of  the 
hand — have  I  abandoned,  merely  in  complaisance  to  the 
boyish  jealousy  of  some  husband.  How  little  they  knew 
me!  Their  safety  was  in  my  principles — in  my  heart; — 
not  in  distance,  absence,  or  coldness.  But,  it  was  my 
duty  to  have  compassion  on  their  infirmities;  and  I  obey- 
ed the  impulse.  But,  believe  me,  there  never  was  a  man 
more  innocent  of  unlawful  acquaintance,  with  the  forbid- 


312  RANDOLPH. 

den  property  of  another.  I  have  poisoned  no  wife's  af- 
fection— breathed  upon  no  wedded  lips — (at  least,  not  to 
my  knowledge) — no! — but  I  have  always  reverenced 
both,  however  unworthily  assorted  they  might  be;  how- 
ever my  heart  might  beat,  or  my  eyes  ache,  for  the  un- 
natural intercourse  that  I  have  seen,  between  intellect 
and  earth — spirituality  and  appetite.  Yet,  I  have  seen 
such  thingSj  and  lamented  them;  but  it  was  not  for  me 
to  reform — what? — the  abuses  of  heaven! 

Judge  you  of  my  truth.  There  are  three  or  four  letters 
from  a  woman,  whom  I  knew  abroad.  We  were  passen- 
gers in  the  same  ship — inhabitants  of  the  same  boarding 
house,  for  a  time.  I  loved  her,  as  a  sister.  She  was  un- 
kindly treated.  I  taught  her  fortitude,  forbearance,  re- 
signation. My  dealing  with  her,  was  sincere  and  high. 
If  she  hath  been  troubled  in  spirit,  it  was  no  fault  of 
mine.  I  did  all  that  a  brother  could  have  done,  to  soothe 
and  sustain  her.  There  is  one,  to  whom  these  things, 
that  I  now  tell  you,  if  she  heard  them,  would  approach 
with  a  power  that  will  appal  her.  Let  her  be  faithful  to 
the  high  and  holy  confidence,  that  1  have  shown  in  her. 
To  her,  alone,  is  the  secret  entrusted.  She  will  under- 
stand me.  The  secret  is  in  her  keeping;  and  while  her 
noble  heart  hath  life  in  it,  I  need  not  implore  her  silence. 
Heaven  bless  her9  forever  and  ever.  May  she  sleep  quiet- 
ly, when  I  am  no  more.  That  is  all  my  prayer  for  her. 
But,  for  the  letters.  There  they  «are; — read  them.  They 
are  all;  and  they  are  very  precious  to  me." 

As  he  concluded,  he  gave  them  to  me.  I  will  transcribe 
them  for  you,  Frank,  in  order. 

LETTER   TO   MOLTON. 

"Yes,  I  will,  I  must,  tell  you  all  (that)  I  suffer.  I  know 
(that)  it  is  not  idle  curiosity  which  prompts  you  to  make 
the  inquiry;  and,  believe  me,  the  lively  interest  which  you 
have  manifested,  is  felt,  with  warmth  and  gratitude. — 
But  I  dare  not  trust  myself  to  tell  you,  how  much  I  thank 
you.  The  voice  of  friendship  or  kindness,  is  irresistible 
to  me — always  was;  but,  of  late,  I  have  been  a  stranger 


RANDOLPH.  313 

to  it.  I  must  not  listen  to  it,  now.  It  only  aggravates 
my  suffering,  and  renders  my  situation  still  more  intoler- 
able. You  must  not,  therefore,  discover  any  degree  of 
sympathy  for  me;  but  I  shall  always  believe  that  you 
feel  it;  and  even  that  will  be  a  comfort  to  me,  through 
life.  You  see  how  1  am  watched,  on  all  sides — an  object 
of  jealousy  and  distrust,  to  those  by  whom  I  am  surround- 
ed. Feeling  and  sensibility  are  alike  strangers  to  them. 
They  cannot,  therefore,  understand  the  nature  of  your 
sentiments,  noble  and  generous  as  they  are.  I  cannot 
describe  to  you,  the  pang  that  I  felt,  when  I  discovered 
that  he  was  a  slave  to  that  most  degrading  vice.  My 
heart  died  within  me;  for  I  well  knew  that  it  would  be 
incurable; — and  I  knew  it  to  be  the  source  of  every  mis- 
ery in  life.  Oh,  I  thought  that  I  could  have  borne  any- 
thing but  that — so  humiliating! — To  be  the  wife  of  a 
man,  and  the  mother  of  his  children,  who  will  * 
**^^^*^^** 

You  have  often  seen  me  look  troubled.  Can  you 
wonder  at  it?  Indeed,  I  wonder  at  myself,  that  I  can  ever 
look  otherwise.  But,  according  to  the  old  adage,  the 
back  is  often  fitted  to  the  burden — and  I  believe  it;  for, 
many  would  have  sunk  under  what  I  hay,e  endured.  But 
it  has  undermined  my  constitution*  and  brought  me  to  the 
brink  of  the  grave.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  watchful 
care,  and  kind  attention  of  Harriot,  I  do  not  believe  that 
I  should  have  been  alive  at  this  moment.  *  * 
********** 

I  have  been  on  the  eve  of  separation  from  him,  half  a 
dozen  times;  but  my  poor  deserted  child  always  arose  to 
my  view,  and  prevented  it.  For  his  sake,  I  have  made 
every  sacrifice.  My  days  have  been  murdered.  *  * 

I  was  formed  for  domestick  happiness;  but  how  little 
of  it  have  I  known!  Since  we  were  married,  he  has  never 
spent  a  single  evening  at  home,  unless  we  had  company. 
********** 

For  me,  he  has  not  one  sentiment  of  affection,  I  verily 
believe;  nay,  I  cannot  persuade  myself  that  he  ever  had, 
or  he  could  not  treat  me  with  such  continual  neglect. 

********** 


314  RANDOLPH. 

After  my  return  from  prayer-meeting,  last  night,  he 
abused  me  most  bitterly,  and  was  on  the  point  of  turn- 
ing me  out  of  doors; — swearing  that  if  ever  went  again, 
I  should  never  enter  a  house  of  his.  Such  is  the  effect  of 
a  violent  temper,  which  terrifies  me  to  death,  whenever 
it  breaks  out. 

His  estates  are  neglected;  his  intellectual  powers  de- 
stroyed; his  constitution  impaired;  and  his  reputation 
irretrievably  injured.  All  this  have  I  foretold  to  him, 
time  after  time,  until,  at  length,  I  have  given  it  up,  en- 
tirely. I  feel  that  I  have  a  double  duty  to  discharge,  and 
a  most  imperious  one.  May  God,  in  his  infinite  mercy, 
give  me  strength  equal  to  the  task! 

He  has  treated  me  better  since  the  passage,  than  he 
ever  did  before.  You  were  the  first  that  ever  taught  him 
to  set  any  value  on  my  opinion.  *  *  *  * 

I  have  now  spoken  to  you,  as  I  would,  to  a  dear  bro- 
ther; and,  as  you  would  guard  the  honour  of  a  sister,  I 
entreat  you  to  confine  what  I  have  said,  to  your  own  bo- 
som. Never  breathe  it  to  mortal,  as  you  value  my  friend- 
ship. Let  me  continue  to  be  thought,  by  the  world,  a 
happy  wife.  But,  O,  there  is  no  happiness  for  me  on  this 
side  of  the  grave.  How  have  the  tenderest  affections  of 
my  heart  been  paralysed! — my  hopes-— how  have  they 
been  blighted! — laid  prostrate  before  that  sceptre,  to 

which  we  must  all  bow but  enough — Let  me  once 

more  beg  of  you,  that  you  will  commit  this  to  the  flames, 
the  moment  that  you  have  read  it.  It  abounds  with  er- 
rour.  and,  if  I  trust  myself  to  read  it  over,  1  know  that  I 
shall  never  send  it. 

May  heaven  bless  you,  and  gather  you  into  its  own 
fold,  at  last,  is  the  sincere  prayer  of, 

CATHARINE. 

The  second  is  as  follows: 

You  are  certainly  a  most  wonderful  being!  How  is  it 
that  you  can  explore  the  secret  recesses  of  my  heart  with 
such  accuracy?  I  have  been  wishing  to  speak  to  you  on 


MANDOT.PH.  31$ 

the  subject  of  your  letters,  bat  never  could  get  an  oppor- 
tunity. That  person  whom  you  have  pictured  from  your 
own  imagination,  was,  indeed,  ail  that  you  suppose.  He, 
like  you,  could  read  every  emotion  of  my  soul,  by  look- 
ing in  my  face.  Ue  had  all  your  enthusiasm;  all  your 
warm,  impetuous,  generous  feeling,  but  none  of  your 
levity  or  infidelity.  Add  to  this,  that  he  was  the  compan- 
ion of  my  childhood,  from  earliest  years;  and  you  will 
not  be  surprised  that  1  felt  for  him, — more  than  I  can 
describe.  That  I  lament  his  death,  and  ever  shall,  is 
most  certain,  although  I  fear  that  I  commit  a  sin  by  do- 
ing so.  Yet  1  cannot  help  it.  With  regard  to  your  ad- 
vice, I  will  try  to  profit  by  it,  so  far  as  I  shall  consider 
it  my  duty;  and  so  far  as  it  is  consistent  with  sincerity 
But  I  never  can  act  the  hypocrite.  I  can  avoid  dispute, 
it  is  true,  by  being  silent;  but,  to  practise  the  arts  of  the 

most  abandoned   of  my  sex — never — never! You  do 

not  know  me  yet*  if  you  think  me  capable  of  deceit.  No 
— I  am  resigned  to  my  fate,  if  it  be  even  to  drag  out  the 
remainder  of  my  life,  without  loving  or  being  beloved, 
by  any  human  being.  You  ask  me  if  you  had  not  better 
abandon  the  house?  I  am  selfish  enough  to  say  no;  but, 
if  you  can  be  happier  any  where  else  — I  answer  yes, yes, 
by  all  means.  Although  it  would  grieve  me  to  part  with 
you, — pain  me  not  to  meet  you  as  I  have  been  accustom- 
ed to,  now  and  then,  in  this  cold  world,  yet  I  entreat 
that  you  will  make  no  sacrifice  on  my  account.  This  is 
the  last  time  that  you  will  see  the  trace  of  my  pen — un- 
less something  unforeseen  should  occur.  I  have  been 
guilty  of  a  very  great  imprudence.  Farewell — I  feel 
vexed  with  myself — but  when  I  see  you,  and  attempt  to 
speak,  I  never  can  say  what  I  would.  May  you  be  as 
happy  as  I  wish  you,  in  time  and  in  eternity!  #  *  # 

Bristol, 

I  have  been  here  nearly  three  weeks;  and  have  not  seen 
a  line  from  any  one  at  home,  with  the  exception  of  a  few 
words  from  my  poor  cousin.  Am  I  not  treated  with  the 
most  unparalleled  neglect  and  cruelty?  Had  I  searched 


316  RANDOLPH. 

the  world  over,  I  could  not  have  met  with  another  being 
so  unkind.  1  have  written  letter  after  letter  to  him;  hut 
they  all  remain  unanswered.  Nay— he  told  me  when  I  left 
home,  if  I  did  not  receive  the  money  from  the  estate — never 
to  return  to  him;  for  he  would  never  see  me  again.  I  do 
sincerely  believe,  that  it  is  his  wish  that  I  never  should. 
I  have  only  to  submit  to  it  a  little  longer.  I  left  home 
with  reluctance,  more  especially,  as  I  had  not  seen  you, 
my  only  friend,  for  so  long  a  time.  My  own  feelings 
warrant  me  in  claiming  your  friendship;  for  I  feel  for 
you  a  sentiment  the  most  pure  and  exalted;  a  sentiment 
that  neither  time  nor  absence  can  alter  or  diminish.  It 
is  founded  upon  the  most  imperishable  basis — that  of  gra- 
titude; and  strengthened  and  confirmed  by  a  thorough  and 
intimate  acquaintance  with  your  heart  and  character. 

I  have  received  much  attention  here.  There  are  seve- 
ral genteel  families  about;  and  I  have  had  invitations  for 
every  day  in  the  week.  My  health  is  much  better  than 
it  has  been  for  a  long  time,  notwithstanding  the  fatigue 
of  the  journey.  And,  after  a  while,  I  shall  be  able  to  en- 
joy myself,  I  hope,  if  that  can  be  called  enjoyment,  in 
which  the  heart  has  no  share.  We  had  a  delightful  ex- 
cursion, lately,  to  a  mountain  in  this  neighbourhood.  It 
commands  a  beautiful  and  extensive  prospect.  But  I 
thought,  while  I  stood  upon  it,  how  much  its  beauty  would 
have  been  enhanced,  had  you  been  near  me.  I  think  of 
you  every  day,  and  almost  every  hour  in  the  day.  I  am 
interested  in  every  thing  which  relates  to  you;  and  even 
Mr.  Stonebridge  does  not  pray  with  more  sincerity  for 

your  happiness,  than  I  do. 

#         %         %         %%%%*# 

Poor  Mary! — you  think  that  she  will  be  unhappy.  Heav- 
en forbid.  Were  she  my  child,  dear  as  she  would  be  to 
my  lone  heart,  1  would  follow  her  cheerfully  to  the  grave, 
rather  than  her  fate  should  resemble  mine.  But  I  will 
not  think  of  it.  My  suffering  hath  taught  me  to  fix  my 
hope  upon  somewThat  less  fleeting  than  earthly  enjoyment. 
I  am  ashamed  to  send  this  scrawl;  but  it  has  been  writ- 
ten in  such  a  hurry — you  must  excuse  it.  *  *  * 


RANDOLPH.  317 

The  next,  in  order,  my  dear  brother,  is  the  following: 
I  have  once  ventured  to  ask  Molton  the  name  of  the  wo- 
man-— but  he  silenced  me,  forever.  I  shall  never  dare 
to  repeat  the  question. 

"Can  it  be  possible,  my  beloved  friend  and  brother! — 
Are  you  indeed  about  to  forsake  us.  This  is  an  unfore- 
seen event,  truly.  But  I  have  suspected  it,  more  than  once, 
during  your  last  visits,  from  your  countenance.  Yes — I 
was  sure  that  you  had  something  of  the  kind  in  contem- 
plation. 1  am  not  at  all  surprised  at  it.  Your  feelings 
have  been  too  often  put  to  the  trial;  and  your  sympathi- 
zing heart  cannot  bear  to  witness  any  longer,  the  suf- 
fering of  one,  for  whom  you  have  professed,  and  for  whom, 
I  believe,  you  truly  feel,  a  friendship.  Dear  and  sacred 
will  be  the  memory  of  that  friendship  to  my  heart — I  can- 
not tell  you  how  I  feel — I  have  wet  the  paper  with  my 
tears.  I  cannot  bear  to  write  farewell.  May  I  ask  yon 
sometimes  to  think  of  rne;  and,  when  I  am  gone  to  another, 
and  a  better  world,  will  you  look  upon  my  poor  boy,  and 
be  a  friend  to  him; — upon  my  babe,  if  it  survive  me,  and 
bless  it.  I  shall  not  be  long  here.  It  is  impossible  that 
I  can  wear  much  longer  in  this  way.  But  while  I  do 
live,  my  prayer  shall  be  offered  up  for  your  prosperity 
and  happiness,  both  here  and  hereafter.  May  we  meet 
in  heaven! 

Farewell)  once  more. 

THE    LAST. 

I  have  just  read  the  manuscript  that  you  left  with  me, 
and  thank  you,  in  sincerity  of  heart,  for  this  mark  of 
your  continued  esteem  and  confidence.  I  rejoice  that 
you  have  been  able  to  extricate  Mr.  S.  How  he  must 
have  felt!  Situated  as  he  is,  I  do  sincerely  hope  that  this 
may  be  the  termination  of  all  his  difficulties,  and  all  his 
sufferings.  I  have  much  to  say  to  you,  my  dear  friend, 
of  my  own  concerns.  I  feel  a  melancholy  gratification 
in  making  yon  acquainted  with  all  my  trial  and  trou- 
ble. No  human  being  knows  of  them  except  yourself. 
You  have  seea  me  appear  cheerful  and  happy,  since  my 
return, — to  the  world  I  mean.  But  O,  how  different 
Do 


318  RANDOLPH. 

have  been  my  real  feelings! — I  have  been  abused,  O,  so 
bitterly,  so  shamefully— *  *  *  *  *  * 
Never  before  has  there  been  such  indifference,  such 
unkindness,  so  unprovoked,  so  deliberate  and  habitual, 
shown  to  me.  During  my  absence,  I  never  received  a 

line; — and  a  letter  from  one  that  was  dear  to  me 

#**###*### 

You  see  what  an  opinion  that  friend  has  of  my  mar- 
ried state — she  is  my  relation, — but  I  would  not  have 
her  know,  for  the  world,  what  I  suffer.  1  cannot  bear  to 
be  pitied.  *  *  *  *  * 

You  seem  to  think  that  I  have  enjoyed  some  happy  hours 
since  my  ill-fated  marriage.  Never — never;  unless  it  be 
from  the  happiness  that  my  dear  little  ones  have  afforded 
me.  I  have  never  known  any  other.  My  life  has  been 
a  continual  martyrdom.  Not  an  hour  have  I  known, 
when  my  heart  could  approve  of  his  conduct.  Our 
minds,  and  pursuits,  and  feelings,  and  sentiments,  are 
diametrically  opposite.  But  this  heartless  indifference  is 
even  worse  than  hatred.  Yet  I  am  now  determined  to 
bear  up  against  it  all,  and  not  suffer  it  to  make  such  an 
impression  on  me,  as  it  has  done — heretofore.  I  feel  that 
I  shall  be  supported  through  it  all;  for  the  All- wise  Dis- 
poser of  events  never  lays  more  upon  us,  than  we  are 
able  to  bear.  While  you  visited  us,  I  lived  compara- 
tively happy.  The  respect  and  attention,  with  which 
you  invariably  treated  me,  made  a  transient  impression 
on  him;  but  it  soon  passed  away.  Do  not  write  to  me — 
I  charge  you.  This  requires  no  answer.  It  is  writ- 
ten on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  after  having  read  the 
manuscript;  beside,  there  is  a  fascination  in  your  wri- 
ting, which  I  do  not  wish  to  feel.  I  try  to  banish  you 
from  my  mind,  as  much  as  possible.  This,  you  will 
say  is  kind — but  it  is  the  simple  truth,  and  I  cannot  tell 
you  any  thing  else.  Farewell." 

There,  my  dear  brother — the  whole  of  his  life  is  now 
before  you.  What  think  you  of  Molton,  now? 

Yours,  brother,  heart  and  soul. 

JOHN. 


RANDOLPH.  319 

JULIET  TO  SARAH. 

O  bless  you,  Sarah,  bless  you!— I  accept  your  offer,  with 
a  full  heart  and  overflowing  eyes.  0,  you  know  not 
what  you  have  saved  me  from, — but  I  cannot  tell  you, 
I  dare  not — I  only  say  that  I  am  ready  to  lie  down  upon 
my  bed,  and  weep  till  the  hour  of  our  meeting.  When 
shall  it  be? — I  am  not  impatient,  not  very  impatient, 
dear  Sarah — but  let  it  be  as  soon  as  possible.  Can  I 
not  join  you?  It  may  be  along  time  before  you  return 

to  New  York; — and,  in  the  mean  time But  no! 

that  were  unworthy  of  me.  I  will  await  your  own  good 
time.  Sarah — I  wish  that  you  could  see  me; — my  hand 
shakes  with  a  strange  convulsion;  and,  just  now,  when  I 
arose  to  tie  up  my  hair,  which  had  fallen  over  my  face* 
and  blinded  me,  I  was  struck  with  the  change  in  my 
own  countenance.  What  does  it  portend? — Jim  I  to  be 
happy  yet! — O,  righteous  heaven,  pity  me;  have  com- 
passion on  me! — else  may  kindness  do,  what  suffering- 
humilation, — the  approach  of  death  has  left  undone — 
make  me  forget  t hee.  Sarah,  I  cannot  write  intelligibly- 
farewell: — heaven  bless  thee — do  not  omit  an  opportu- 
nity to  write  to  me,  do  not — you  can  have  no  idea  what 

a  sweet  consolation  it  is  to  me Stay,  I  have  read  this 

over.  I  have  half  a  mind  to  tear  it:  yet  something  must 
be  said;  and,  if  I  trust  my  heart  to  tell  its  gratitude,  there 
is  no  knowing  how  unwise  and  pestilent  a  babbler  it 
may  become. —  So — go  it  must;  but  remember,  1  do 
not  complain.  I  betray  no  one — I  accuse  no  one.  I 
only  say  that  I  am  unhappy — very,  very  unhappy;  and 
that,  the  sooner  1  am  in  the  arms  of  my  own  dear  Sarah, 
the  sooner  I  shall  be  happy. — Farewell — farewell! — 
The  route  to  Quebec  will  be  delightful — Ah,  I  wish  that 
I  were  with  you.- — 

JULIET. 


320  RANDOLPH. 

SARAH   TO   JIIIJET. 

I  promised  to  continue  my  journal.  Lo!  here  it  is — 1 
copy  it,  just  as  it  was  written,  with  all  my  pencil  anno- 
tations, on  the  road. 

PORTSMOUTH  FERRY — What  a  beautiful  river! — and 
"what  multitudes  offish.  The  name,  too  is  remarkable, 
and  would  indicate  a  strange  affinity,  between  the  Latin, 
and  tfoe  Indian  tongues.  Wrong — the  Latin  is  a  lan- 
guage, the  Indian  a  tongue — a  tongue  is  a  dialect — a  dia- 
lect is  a — it  is  called  Fiscataqua — that  was  the  original 
name  too.  The  Indians  say,  that,  it  is,  in  their  language, 
the  water  o/Jish.  It  is  so  in  Latin.  But  there  are  other  in- 
stances, 1  am  told,  of  the  same  kind.  The  current  is  ve- 
ry strong;  and  we  cross  in  a  wide  curve.  There  is  a 
navy-yard  in  sight,  where,  1  am  told  they  are  building 
some  three-deckers.  We  are  now  in  old  Massachusetts 
again.  This  town  is  WEIXS.  But  what  can  I  say  of  it? 
Nothing. 

KENNEBUNK. — A  pretty  place,  with  an  air  of  bustle  and 
impatience,  that  pleases  me.  The  tavern  keeper,  with 
his  surly  good  humour,  good  face,  and  gouty  feet,  is  quite 
an  oddity.  On  the  whole,  there  is  an  air  of  picturesque- 
ness  here,  that  strikes  me. 

SACO. — We  are  now  approaching  the  capital  of  the  new 
state,  thatrs  to  be.  This  is  a  marvellous,  neat,  snug  clus- 
ter of  habitations.  The  houses  are  of  board,  (frame,  as  we 
call  them)  wooden  they  are  called  here — and  painted, 
chiefly  white;which  has  a  lively,  bright  air,  w  hen  contrast- 
ed with  the  deep  green  of  the  turf  and  trees  about,  arid 
the  clear  blue  sky.  There  is,  1  am  told,  a  good  deal  of  fash- 
ion and  gentility  here;  and  1  dare  say  that  it  is  true.  For 
I  have  always  observed  that,  in  these  little  towns,  there 
is  (bating  their  scandal,  which  is  less  in  quantity,  and 
sharper  in  quality,  than  with  us) — a  general  fondness 
for  convivial,  sociable  intercourse.  Having  more  leisure 
— and  being  few  in  number,  they  huddle  together,  with- 
out much  etiquette;  and  therefore,  soon  learn,  all  but  the 
parade  of  fashion,  by  learning  to  be  agreeable.  Have 
you  ever  been  in  a  country  ball  room?  Did  you  never  ob- 


RANDOLPH.  321 

serve  the  striking  difference  between  the  gentility  of  the 
men,  and  that  of  the  women?  With  the  exception  of  the 
village  lawyer,  a  doctor  perhaps,  and  some  young  shop- 
keeper, the  beaux  are  always  rough-hewn,  awkward  crea- 
tures, who  scarcely  know  how  to  sit  in  their  chair; — 
and  dance,  generally,  in  purple  gloves,  that  discharge 
their  dye,  like  a  steeped  poppy, — so  stiff  in  the  fingers  too, 
tii  at  few  can  succeed  in  shutting  the  hand.  They  are 
like  an  iron  gauntlet,  without  joints;— while  the  women  are 
really  well  bred  and  almost  fashionable.  Whence  is 
the  difference?  I  have  asked  Frank.  He  is  running 
over  at  the  eyes,  with  pleasure; — half  crazy,  I  believe, 
with  one  adventure  after  another.  He  says  that  there 
is  less  difference  in  the  employments,  of  women,  than  in 
those  of  men.  The  woman  of  the  village,  and  the  lady 
of  the  city,  spend  their  time  chiefly  in  the  house. — 
But  with  the  men,  it  is  widely  different.  In  the  country 
they  are  exposed  night  and  day,  to  toil,  and  wind  and 
rain.  Vbila  la  difference. 

This  has  been  a  great  place  for  the  lumber  trade. — 
You  know  what  that  is.  It  is  the  place  of  a  hundred 
mills; — but  there  has  just  happened  a  tremendous  rise  of 
the  river.  It  is  all  white  and  roaring,  at  this  moment — 
and  the  bridges  are  all  carried  away — and  many  mills; 
and,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see,  the  water  is  covered  with 
pine  logs,  tumbling  and  pitching  about,  in  their  way  to 
the  ocean,  with  here  and  there,  a  little  boat  dancing  like 
a  cork  in  the  foam, — carrying  some  men,  who  are  busy 
in  picking  up  their  stray  lumber.  It  is  very  perilous,  I 

am  told — Ah! 

*        *        *        *        *        #        *        ### 

At  that  moment,  a  boat  upset,  in  sight  of  my  window; 
but  no  lives  are  lost.  The  poor  creatures  are  just  landed, 
almost  under  where  I  sit.  Our  house  is  full,  uncomfor- 
tably full;  for,  all  the  travellers  are  stopped — each  way; 
and,  it  is  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  the  mail  is  sent 
across.  Such  swells  and  inundations  are  called  freshets. 
They  are  caused  by  great  rains — in  the  up  country;  melt- 
ing of  the  snows;  and  breaking  up  of  the  ice. 


322  RANDOLPH. 

PORTLAND Well — here  we  are,  at  last,  in  one  of 

the  most  delightful  places,  I  verily  believe,  to  he 
found  in  the  world.  The  weather  is  charming;  and 
we  have  just  returned  from  a  walk,  to  what  they  call 
the  Observatory.  It  is  a  tall  red  tower,  bijilt  of  pine,  to 
he  sure,  with  a  line  telescope  at  the  top.  It  stands  on  a 
high  hill,  from  which  you  look  dowrn  upon  the  coloured 
roofs  of  innumerable  houses,  mingled  with  innumerable 
trees.  It  is  a  beautiful  fashion  they  have  here,  of  planting 
trees,  along  the  streets,  and  putting  every  house  into  a  bed 
of  foliage.  It  cools  the  air,  and  consumes  that  part  of  it 
which  is  pernicious  to  animal  life;  purifies  it;  gives 
shadow  and  beauty  to  the  whole  town;  and  has  the  pret- 
ty effect  of  making  it  appear  three  times  as  large  as  it 
is.  Portland  is  quite  an  amphitheatre,  from  the  water. 

There  is  a  spacious  bay  in  front  of  us — the  bluest  wa- 
ter in  the  world — all  covered  over  with  little  islets,  that 
look  like  spots  of  green  turf;  and  all  along  the  horizon,  on 
one  side,  is  a  line  of  irregular  green — like  surging  eme- 
rald, over  which  the  white  dazzling  spray  dashes,  in- 
cessantly; it  is  like  an  embankment  of  moss — drifting  up. 
There  is  a  light-house — and  there  are  two  neatly  con- 
structed forts.  Just  behind  it,  is  another,  that  was 
built  during  our  revolutionary  war*  Before  us,  on  the 
hill,  a  heavy,  but  ruinous  battery,  bearing  evident  marks 
of  having  been  visited  by  the  enemy,  in  other  days;  the 
guns  are  broken  and  dismounted,  and  the  intrenchments 
levelled.  Just  below,  however,  almost  on  alevel  with  the 
water,  is  a  formidable  battery,  recently  constructed,  in 
consequence,  I  am  told,  of  a  threat  made  by  the  British 
commander  on  the  station,  to  enter,  and  cut  out  the  En- 
teiyprize  and  Boxer;  for,  it  was  into  this  port,  that  she 
brought  her  prize,  says  a  gentleman  that  is  with  us,  a 
fidgetty,  active,  good  natured,  good-for-nothing  sort  of 
a  man,  as  I  am  used  to  call  just  such  another  one  of  your 
acquaintance,  to  whom  the  Emperour  Alexander  once  sent 
a  ring:  0,  by  the  way,  did  you  ever  hear  the  reason?  It 
was  admirable; — a  genuine  "yankee  trick."  He  first 
sent  the  Emperour  a  copy  of  the  life  of  the  Czar  Alexander 
of  Russia,  magnificently  bound,  written  and  printed  in 


RANDOLPH.  323 

England! — a  matter  which  might  have  cost  three  or  four 
dollars.  In  return  for  which,  could  the  Emperour  do  less? 
The  Emperour  sent  him  a  ring,  about  the  size  of  a  shoe 
huckle,  in  which  a  couple  of  hundred  bits  of  broken  dia- 
monds, are  so  managed,  as  to  dazzle  and  blind  many  a 
beautiful  pair  of  eyes,  that  have  attempted  to  count  them. 
Gracious!  who  knows  but  the  Emperour  may  have  had 
that  very  ring  upon  his  imperial  finger — taken  snuff  in 
it,  perhaps! — O,«~it  reminded  me  of  Henry  fourth, 
and  his  turnip, — so  good  a  bargain.  But  let  me  return, 
if  I  can,  to  the  subject.  Our  guide  was  amazingly  like 
him— extremely  polite,  on  account  of  our  appearance,  I 
suppose — for,  while  he  was  with  us,  lie  appeared  neither 
to  hear  nor  see  any  body  else.  He  had  been  every  where; 
and  seen  every  thing;  and  talked  incessantly,  with  his 
kat  in  his  hand.  He  was  the  first  on  board  of  the  Boxer, 
after  the  battle.  It  was  fought,  almost  within  sight  of 
him.  Her  deck  was  covered  with  blood  and  brains — the 
scuppers  were  running  yet;  and  he  saw  two  men  shake 
hands,  who  had  been  aiming  and  firing  at  each  other,  for 
twenty  minutes,  during  the  battle.  Each  had  killed  or 
wounded  every  body  about  the  other;  and  the  last  shot 
that  was  fired,  struck  a  man  in  the  mouth  that  stood  by 
the  side  of  him.  The  mast  was  full  of  balls,  too.:  "But 
how  did  you  manage  to  fire  so  much  faster  than  I?"  said 
the  Briton.  "Pll  tell  you,"  said  the  American.  "0,  it  was 
a  neat  tiling; — my  mess  mate,  in  the  fore-top,  was 
wounded — so  he  lay  down,  and  bit  off  the  ends  of  the 
cartrages;  and  primed  for  me,  while  I  loaded." 

This  has  been  a  place  of  great  busines;  but  a  series  of 
misfortunes  and  disorders,  had  reduced  it,  exceedingly. 
Of  late,  it  has  taken  a  new  start;  a  monkish  superstition 
has  given  way  to  the  rational  dominion  of  festivity;  bu- 
siness has  awakened;  rash  and  adventurous  speculation  is 
done  with;  and  things  have  settled  down,  into  a  substan- 
tial and  healthful  tranquillity.  People  are  contented  now, 
with  moderate  and  certain  profits,  in  their  business;  and 
there  is  an  air  of  comfort  and  good  sense  about  them, 
that  I  love  to  meet  with.  Some  religious  factions  have 
existed,  they  say — and  I  am  promised  an  introduction  to 

•Ah,  the  secret  is  out!    Thi«  courteous  gentleman  had  heard  of  my  poor  father's  respec • 
tabiiity.—Ho\v  amiable  and  disinterested. 


324  EANDOLPH. 

the  two  rival  chiefs.  One,  I  am  told,  is  a  mild,  gentle 
creature,  with  a  heart  overflowing  in  benevolence  and 
sincerity;  the  other,  equally  sincere,  but  more  ambitious, 
and  tremendously  austere.  The  last  prevailed  for  a  term, 
and  darkened  all  the  habitations  of  enjoyment.  But  the 
reign  of  the  other  is  now  established;  and  things  go  on 
pleasantly,  rationally,  and  with  a  sufficient  degree  of 
solemnity,  even  for  a  religious  people. 

This  town  was  burnt,  during  the  revolution,  in  a  most 
cruel,  and  wanton  manner,  by  a  wretch,  whose  name  they 
will  not  pronounce,  even  in  execration,  lest  he  should  be 
remembered;  and  I  have  just  trodden  upon  the  ground, 
where  Sullivan  says  that  a  sort  of  Indian  battle  was 
once  fought,  many  years  before  the  Revolution. 

MONDAY  EVENING. — I  have  been  unable  to  write  till 
now.  The  women  are  very  beautiful  here;  and  some 
singularly  intelligent — but  the  men — they  are  so — so.  I 
speak  of  the  young  men;  for,  with  two  or  three  excep- 
tions, they  have  proved  a  very  tame,  insipid,  spiritless 
set  to  me.  They  affect  to  admire  me;  but  there  is  no 
character  in  their  admiration.  I  had  rather  have  a 
blunt  fellow  wring  my  hand,  till  the  blood  spirts  out  of  the 
nail — in  sincerity,  than  listen,  forever,  to  the  chatter- 
ing of  these  magpies,  however  pleased  they  may  really 
be  with  me.  But  I  lately  spent  an  evening  here  in  a 
society  of  women,  who  would  have  done  honour,  to  any 
city  in  the  world.  Indeed,  I  never  saw  so  many  truly 
fine  women  assembled  together  before.  I  saw  a  great 
deal  of  plain  unaffected  good  sense;  and  really  very  little 
pretension,  or  prettiness,  or  affectation. — It  is  true,  that 
they  look  much  younger  to  a  southern  eye,  than  they 
really  are;  for,  a  woman  of  two  or  three  and  twenty,  here, 
looks  more  fresh  and  youthful,  than  many  of  sixteen  or 
seventeen  with  us.  And  I  have  made  an  acquaintance 
with  one  who  astonished  me,  by  telling  her  age,  the  mo- 
ment that  I  alluded  to  her  appearance,  without  the 
slightest  expression,  either  of  concern  or  candour.  She 
was  twenty-seven! — Juliet! — she  does  not  look  so  old  as 
your  humble  servant.  Twenty-seven! — upon  my  word, 
I  have  a  prodigious  fancy  to  know,  how  I  shall  feel  and 
look  when  I  am  twenty-seven. 


RANDOLPH.  325 

Saturday  we  had  a  sort  of  a  water  party,  to  see  the 
Torts — and  eat  chowder.  Tiiat  is  no  laughing  matter, 
here,  I  assure  you.  A  large  fish  is  caught,  if  possible; — 
if  not,  many  small  ones — and  soused  in,  head  and  ears, 
into  a  large  kettle  of  water, — into  which,  biscuit,  and 
herbs,  and  one  thing  and  another  are  put,  until  the  whole 
makes  (with  a  plenty  of  pepper)  a  thick,  indescribable 
dish,  which  I  really  found  quite  palatable.  This,  you  will 
observe,  is  cooked  in  the  open  air — and  by  the  beaux, 
with  whom  it  is  a  matter  of  no  little  jealousy  and  com- 
petition. \Ve  had  some  tolerable  singing — and  were 
politely  treated,  at  th  -  forts — but  we  were  well  nigh  get- 
ting most  nobly  ducked,  if  not  something  worse,  on  our 
disembarkation;  and  returned,  drenched,  wet,  and  cold, 
and  weary.  But  that  is  a  part  of  the  amusement.  It  would 
hardly  be  thought  a  water-party,  else.  Frank  is  half 
frantick.  The  admiration  of  the  women,  by  the  way, 
is  not  very  equivocally  expressed; — but  that  we  must 
forget,  when  we  recollect  that  the  males  have  all 
burrowed  abroad — or  scampered  off;  and  that  a  good  fel- 
low is  no  light  matter  among  such  a  multitude  of  un- 
married women. — But,  Frank  says,  he  would  not  mind 
a  sleigh-ride  in  such  company!  You,  have  heard  him  des- 
cribe one  that  he  had — a  ball — cold  rooms — cold  feet — 
cold  supper — cold  sickness  at  the  stomach — cold  giddiness 
of  the  head — returning  late — no  fire — and  going  into  a 
bed,  cold  as  a  snow  drift,  with  feet — feeling  as  if  they 
belonged  to — anybody  but  the  owner. 

BATH — BRUNSWICK. — We  are  now  at  Bath.  We  pass- 
ed through  several  pleasant  places  on  our  route;  the  last 
of  which  was  Brunswick.  Here  is  the  Bowdoin  College; 
a  very  respectable  institution.  I  met  a  Mr.  Cleveland 
there,  who,  Frank  says,  is  a  man  of  uncommon  science, 
as  a  mineralogist,  geologist,  and  conchologist — (I  be- 
lieve these  are  the  names;) — that  he  has  published  a 
book,  which  is  the  established  text  book,  in  the  science, 
at  some  of  the  universities  of  Europe.  I  liked  the  man. 
His  manner  was  plain  and  unpretending.  He  showed 
us  a  respectable  cabinet,  and  some  decent  pictures; — in 
return  for  w  Inch,  happening  to  hear  him  ask  Frank,  if 


326  RANDOLPH. 

if  he  had  any  acquaintance  with  German,  I  played  oft% 
very  adroitly,  I  assure  you,  some  of  my  scholarship.  I 
hegged,  modestly,  like  the  red  coat,  before  Pope,  (for,  I 
confess,  I  thought  of  Aim,  at  the  time,)  to  be  permitted 
to  look  at  the  passage.  I  was  able  to  explain  it.  And, 
I  thought,  if  ever  the  poor  man  had  kissed  any  woman 
but  his  wife,  that  he  would  have  jumped  into  my  arms. 
His  dark,  manly  eyes,  sparkled  fire.  He  was  a  begin- 
ner, he  said — and  had  never  heard  it  pronounced.  I  read 
two  or  three  sentences — and  we  parted.  What  should 
you  say,  to  my  learning  chymistry?  I  assure  you,  that  it  is 
considered,  here,  quite  a  common  thing,  for  a  lady.  Mr. 
C.  has  made  it  popular  and  fashionable; — he  is  an  admir- 
able lecturer,  and  lectures  every  season,  to  ladies.  This 
town  is  built  on  a  perfect  level — and  is  remarkable,  I 
dare  say,  for  nothing.  There  are  a  great  number  of  saw 
mills — some  students — plenty  of  pigeons;  and,  what  they 
call,  huckleberries — (whortleberries,  I  suppose.) 

BATH  is  a  small,  but  very  pleasant  town.  I  am  quite 
pleased  with  it.  Here  lives  the  brother  of  our  Rufus 
King;  an  ambitious,  strong-minded,  awkward,  unprin- 
cipled, ignorant  man,  with  considerable  talent  for  in- 
trigue— and  military  talent  enough,  to  construct  a  re- 
doubt, lately,  of  pine-timber — the  splinters  of  which, 
when  struck  by  a  ball,  would  infallibly  have  done  ten 
times  the  mischief,  that  the  ball  would,  if  it  struck  a 
whole  platoon.  So,  says  a  mischievous  fellow,  here,  who 
seems  to  delight  in  caricaturing,  with  a  great  air  of 
pleasantry,  whatever  passes  through  his  mind. 

WISCASSET. — Here  we  are,  at  last,  half  dead  with  fa- 
tigue, over  the  vilest  road  in  the  world.  With  this  little 
place,  I  am  delighted.  I  shall  never  think  of  it,  but  with  af- 
fection. I  am  greeted  and  welcomed  here,  with  that  cor- 
diality, which  we  give  to  relations.  I  shall  stay  some 
days  here. 

THURSDAY. — I  am  about  to  depart.  I  have  made  some 
pleasant  acquaintances;  among  others,  a  clergyman  now 
here  on  a  visit; — a  very  extraordinary  man.  He  is  set- 
tled in  Bath;  but  they  are  about  to  lose  him,  as  he  can- 
not make  up  his  mind  to  downright  starvation.  He  is  a 


RANDOLPH. 

scholar,  a  gentleman,  and  a  Christian.  There  is  a  Bos- 
ton lady  here,  too — a  Miss  R ,  with  whom  I  should 

be  proud  and  pleased  to  renew  my  acquaintance.  But 
how  unlikely  it  is! — alas,  my  dear  Juliet,  it  is  a  melan- 
choly thought — to  part  smilingly,  and/orroer/ — I  cannot 
bear  it.  It  were  better,  I  think  sometimes,  that  we  had 
never  met.  I  have  found  a  sweet  little  creature  here,  too; 
who,  I  am  afraid,  is  about  to  be  married.  I  shall  never 
forget  Wiscasset,  or  its  hearty,  hospitable,  intelligent, 
and  polite  people. 

W/iTERVLLLE.--"Thepleasantest  village  in  the  world!'* 
said  Frank,  the  moment  that  we  entered  it.  We  are  now 
within  eighty  miles,  C  am  told,  of  Quebec,  in  a  right 
line.  Indeed,  it  is  a  beautiful  place — a  few  neat  dwell- 
ings; and  all  so  happy  and  rural.  Frank  has  just  re- 
turned. Would  you  believe  it — we  are  close  at  home. — 
Here — here,  within  a  stone's  throw,  lives  my  beloved 
aunt!  O,  I  do  feel  happy.  I  must  run  to  her. 

Evening. — I  am  happy,  Juliet — once  more,  I  am  real- 
ly happy.  My  dear  aunt  knew  me,  immediately.  She 
wspt — and  fainted.  1  knew  her  character — L  expected 
it.  She  is  a  noble-looking  woman;  but  sorrow  and  dis- 
appointment have  broken  her  down.  She  says  that  my 
resemblance  to  my  mother  is  striking.  I  can  scarcely 
remember  her.  She  was  the  younger  sister,  it  appears; 
but  no  more  at  present.  I  am  happy.  Frank  appears 
very  cloudy  and  distressed,  of  late.  For  two  or  three 
days,  he  has  been  remarkably  silent — and  I  have  caught 
his  eyes  dwelling  upon  me,  sometimes,  with  a  singular 
expression.  When  I  say,  "What  is  the  matter,  cou- 
sin?— you  frighten  me."  He  attempts  to  smile — "Be  of 
good  heart,  dear  Sarah,"  he  says — "all  will  go  right — 
I  have  only  recovered  my  senses."  Well,  well — I  will 
not  trouble  myself  about  it.  It  was  natural — these  arti- 
ficial spirits  of  his  have  passed  off — and  languor  and  de- 
pression are  the  natural  consequences.  Yet,  somehow, 
I  do  feel  a  little  cold  about  the  heart,  as  if  some  other  ca- 
lamity— what,  I  know  not — were  near  to  me. 

Perhaps  he  is  out  of  temper.  He  has  been  inconceiva- 
bly annoyed,  in  all  directions,  on  this  road.  He  has  been 


328  RANDOLPH. 

repeatedly  gazed  at,  followed,  and  questioned,  as  general 
Ripley.  I  never  saw  the  general;  but,  the  resemblance 
must  be  very  extraordinary,  indeed,  to  be  observed  here; 
for,  we  are  told,  that  he  once  lived  in  this  village,  and 
practised  law  for  some  time.  Frank  is  not  so  tall,  nor 
so  old;  and  beside  that,  he  has  very  handsome  teeth,  while 
the  front  ones  of  the  general  are  gone.  Yet,  neverthe- 
less, when  sitting,  he  has  been  addressed  as  general,  by 
persons  that  knew  him  well.  Even  their  voices  are 
alike. 

I  forgot  to  describe  HALLOWELI,  and  AUGUSTA,  two 
towns  upon  the  Kennebeck;  or,  rather,  we  passed  through 
them  so  rapidly,  that  I  had  no  time.  I  am  told,  how- 
ever, that  the  people  are  active,  polite,  and  kind  to 
strangers;  and  the  situation  and  appearance  of  both 
towns  are  very  pleasant.  I  should  like  to  reside  in  them, 
awhile,  I  think. 

Ah,  Sarah. — Frank  has  just  left  me.  The  mystery  is 
explained.  He  brought  an  open  letter  in  his  hand.  He 
sat  down  by  me. — He  prepared  me — but  his  heart  was 
full,  and  his  hand  shook  the  while — for  what  I  was  to 
expect.  My  father  was  a  bankrupt.  Does  it  shock  you, 
Juliet.  1  know  not  why — it  may  be  apathy  in  me — it 
may  be,  that  my  sensibility  is  deadened  by  recent  suf- 
fering— it  may  be,  that  I  do  not  yet  know  the  value  of 
what  I  have  lost — but,  at  this  moment,  Juliet, — if  thou 
wert  near  me,  I  would  bid  thee  lay  thy  hand  upon  my 
heart — It  aches  not.  It  is  neither  colder  nor  wanner — 
more  nor  less  hurried,  or  agitated,  than  before.  Per- 
haps it  is  that  I  expected  something  more  terrible. — I 
did — I  know  not  what — but  this];  certainty,  is  really  a 
relief  to  me. 

I  shall  send  this,  immediately.  I  shal^now  abandon  all 
thought  of  Quebec.  Frank  will  leave  me  here,  awhile, 
and  return  to  look  into  the  estate.  It  may  not  be  so 
bad,  as  we  fear; — but,  in  the  mean  time,  my  sweet  Juliet 
will  believe  me,  when  I  say,  that  my  only  sorrow  is — 
that  I  have  no  longer  a  habitation  for  her. — Perhaps 
you  have  received  my  letter  — perhaps! — Oh!  that  I 
could  pray  that  you  may  not.  May  it  miscarry! — if  the 


RANDOLPH.  3£9 

offer  were  never  made — never  accepted — the  disappoint- 
ment will  be  less  cruel. — Heaven  only  knows  when  we 
.shall  meet,  now. — Farewell!  farewell!—* 


SARAH, 


JOHN  TO  SARAH. 

Let  me  entreat  you,  dear  Sarah,  to  make  Juliet  leave 
Jane  and  the  family,  without  losing  a  day.  I  have  my 
reasons.  I  have  just  left  her.  I  have  had  a  mortal 

quarrel  with  Jane. 1  will  never  set  my  foot  within 

her  door  again.  But  what  will  become  of  Juliet? — O 
save  her!  save  her! — Does  Grenville  wrong  her? — By 
heaven,  Sarah,  I  will  see  him — see  him,  immediately; 
and,  if  that  blessed  creature  hath  aught  to  complain  of 
from  him — I  know  not  what  I  am  writing.— He  is  con- 
stantly there— and  just  now,  when  I  entered  unexpectedly, 
Juliet  was  weeping — and  Jane  stood  near  her,  her  coun- 
tenance inflamed  with  passion.  What  does  it  mean? 
There  was  that  devil  of  a  Matilda,  too — her  arms 
crossed  so  meekly  upon  her  lap,— and  hell  and  death  about 
her  eyes  and  lips — Offer  Juliet  you?  home  immediately—- 
immediately! there  is  not  a  moment  to  lose. 

JOHN. 


JOHN  TO  FRANK. 

Annapolis,  Md.  —~~ 

*ank! — Lock  your  hands  upon  your  heart — 
go  down  upon  your  knees.  It  is  true  after  all- — true. — 
William  was  murdered.  Yes! — and  Edward  Molton 
was  the  murderer.  Lord,  God!  what  a  complication 
of  horrour  and  crime  has  been  revealed  to  me. 

Now  listen. — Last  evening,   I  had  been  to  Jane's. 
Something  that  I  saw,  displeased  me;- and  I  left  the  house 
EB 


330  RANDOLPH. 

in  wrath.  I  came  here,  and  scribbled  a  line  or  two  to 
Sarah— for  God's  sake,  Frank,  do  you  enforce  it — send 
for  Juliet — Let  not  a  day — not  an  hour  pass — I  will  go 
for  her — I  will  tear  her  away,  by  force — sword  in 
hand — from  the  devils  that  beset  her. 

I  went  to  Molton's.  It  was  moonlight.  He  propos- 
ed a  walk; — and  the  temperature  of  the  evening  was  so 
soft  and  pleasant,  that  his  physician  consented;  and  we 
wandered  together  for  more  than  two  hours.  1  never  heard 
Motion's  true  voice  before.  1  never  before  saw  him  in 
such  a  temper.  God! — he  underwent  a  transfiguration  be- 
fore my  very  eyes — he  walked  out,  in  spirit,  like  an  arch- 
angel. 1  was  uplifted,  awed  and  borne  away,  by  his  great 
eloquence.  It  was  unearthly — the  deep,  deep  utterance 
of  an  acquitted,  anointed  rebel.  It  grew  dark;  and  \ve  re- 
turned by  a  way  that  was  unfrequented.  The  wind  rose; 
and,  at  last,  Molton  himself  confessed,  that  he  knew  not 
where  we  were — at  this  moment,  1  thought  that  1  could 
perceive  a  ruined  building  near — I  was  right.  It  was 
so — and  a  part  of  our  own  tenement.  1  was  amused,  when 
I  discovered  the  truth,  for  it  had  never  appeared  to  me  be- 
fore as  it  did  then.  I  had  been  bewildered,  and  had  never 
approached  it  before,  on  the  same  side.  We  entered,  and 
were  advancing  with  outstretched  hands,  when  Molton 
suddenly  caught  my  arm.  My  blood  retreated.  He  breath- 
ed like  one,  at  his  last  gasp— but  not  a  sound  escaped  from 
his  lips.  He  stopped — put  his  hand  to  his  forehead — and 
disappeared.  A  moment  after,  he  returned — he  took 
my  hand.  His  own  was  cold  as  death.  He  appeared  to 
have  made  some  discovery.  His  track  was  like  an  In- 
dian upon  the  scent  of  his  prey.  His  eyes  flashed — I 
could  see  them  sparkle,  though  it  was  very  dark.  He 
compelled  me  to  follow  him,  by  main  force;  and  I  did, 
along  by  the  broken  wall — to  a  green  spot — where  the 
great  oak  stands:- —he  paused  there,  for  a  moment — and 
stood  like  one,  trying  to  recall  some  forgotten  thing — 
but  then  a  sudden  recollection  seemed  to  strike  him.  Some 
sound,  1  know  not  what,  escaped  between  his  set  teeth; 
and  he  dashed  through  the  shrubbery.  I  thought  that  he 
was  mad,  but  I  followed  him — he  struck  the  doors  aside — 
one  after  the  otheiywhile  he  passed  on,  as  with  an  iron  arm; 


RANDOLPH.  351 

and  he  jarred  the  whole  house  with  his  tread.  At  last,  we 
stood  in  the  centre  of  my  own  room. 

"By  the  everlasting  God!"  he  cried,  then- — "This 
accounts  for  it!  Yes — jesl-there  is  the  very  closet! --J/wrt 
the  door-—  £Aere*-fool!— madman! — why  did  I  not  suspect 
the  truth? — Those  spots  of  blood! — smoking,  absolutely 
smoking  under  my  nostrils — the  whole  house  quivering 
with  the  unbidden  presence! -mortal  spasms,  affecting  even 
material  things! — My  sleep  broken — my  senses  disor- 
dered— my  heart  crumbling — and  yet, — the  truth — the 
truth  never  suspected,  before!  John  Omar — come  here-- 
here!  There— place  your  foot  therel — a  little  more  this 
way.  Look  at  me — can  you  see  my  face? — Look  at  me, 
and  listen.  You  are  standing  on  blood.  What  blood? — 
blood,  shed  by  this  hand — this? — whose? — the  blood  of 
your  cousin  William!  What!  do  you  stagger!  are  you 
not  ashamed?  Look  at  me — behold — Lo!  I  set  my  foot  up- 
on the  spot.  Do  I  tremble?  No.  Yet — with  this  hand,  I 
slew  him— and  the  spot  where  his  blood  rattled  out,  is 
yet  hot  to  the  bottoms  of  my  feet.  It  was  just  such  a 
night  as  this.  Yes — guard  the  door.  I  am  your  prisoner, 
am  I  ? — fool!  were  you  twenty  times  the  man  that  you 
are — I  could  rend  you,  limb  from  limb,  ere  you  were 
able  to  utter  a  loud  cry.  Beware  how  you  provoke  me. 
Hear  me  out — or,  where  I  stand— -on  this  very  spot,  will 
I  tread  your  heart  into  the  solid  wood,  as  I  did  his.  Hear 
me.  It  is  the  retribution  of  heaven.  I  am  constrained 
to  speak.  It  is  against  my  will.  It  was  just  such  a 
night  as  this.  I  had  been  unhappy — mad,  it  may  be; — 
for  after  the  deed,  1  was  mad.  In  that  way,  do  I  account 
for  the  tremendous  fact,  that  I  have  held  communion 
with  the  murdered  man,  night  after  night;  slept  within 
smell  of  the  blood,  that  I  had  let  out — travelled,  through 
and  through,  the  apartments  of  his  habitation;  and  never 
knew;  never  suspected;  never  dreamt  that  I  was  within 
them — or  near  them,  till  this  moment." 

Helen  heard  our  voices,  and  entered  with  a  light.^-,. 
Never  did  I   see  such  a  countenance  as  his,  when  that 
light  struck  it.  It  was  dislocated  marble— rigid— white— 
and  the  sweat  was  on  it*  like  the  night  dew. 

"Woman — Begone!"    said  he. 


332  RANDOLPH. 

She  hesitated — looked  terribly  alarmed — "I  command 
thee,  Helen — leave  me! — dear  Helen,  do  not  trouble  me, 
now.— But  leave  the  light.  I  will  be  with  thee,  anon— 
Go,  Helen! — go  dear." 

She  departed.  Molton  resumed  his  incoherent  speech; 
and,  during  the  whole  scene  that  followed,  he  never 
stirred  his  feet,  nor  his  hands;  but,  on  he  went,  on,  on 
fore\Tr,  like  a  speaking  corpse. 

"Why  did  I  not  know  the  spot? — it  was  winter  then, 
the  trees  were  leafless— the  habitation  desolate— the  earth 
wet,  and  soaking  to  my  tread." 

"Your  cousin  insulted  me.  I  smiled.  He  cursed  me  in 
the  bitterness  of  his  wrath,  and  hatred.  I  bore  it  all. — 
Many  eyes  were  upon  me,  but  I  bore  it;  for,  I  had  learnt 
what  it  is  to  have  the  blood-dew  abide  upon  the  blossom- 
ing heart.  I  was  patient — very  patient;  but,  human  pa- 
tience hath  its  limits.  He  would  have  struck  me.  His 
arm  was  raised— it  was  about  to  descend.  I  retreated— 
for  I  knew  that,  if  it  touched  me,  in  the  descent,  I 
should  shatter  it  to  the  shoulder.  Nay— -I  knew  that,  ere 
he  could  raise  his  hand  again,  my  knife — I  always  carry 
one — see  here— this  knife,  would  be  buried,  up  to  the  han- 
dle in  his  side — I  promised  to  meet  him.  "Mone," 
said  he,  menacing  me.— "Alone,"  said  I.  «*Your  wea- 
pon?" said  he.  "I  care  not,"  was  my  reply.  But  on 
second  thought,  I  named  the  small-sword.  He  assented. 
My  reasons  were  simple.  I  was  a  pretty  good  swords- 
man. I  might  disarm,  or  wound  him.  I  could  do  as  I 
pleased,  about  killing  him.  At  any  rate,  swords  were  less 
fatal  than  pistols;  for  both  could  not  well  be  killed 
with  swords;  and  I  was  the  challenged  person.  We  met, 
at  the  time,  and  on  the  spot  agreed  upon.  You  have 
stood  upon  it.  His  body  is  buried  under  the  very  tree, 
beneath  which  we  first  measured  blades.  I  provided 
against  any  accident;  for  I  knew  that  he  was  desperate; 
and,  as  1  had  never  seen  him  play,  I  thought  it  probable 
that  he  would  shorten  his  blade,  and  close  upon  me. — 
That  might  be  fatal— and*  therefore,  I  had  prepared  an 
exculpation  of  Aim,  and  left  it  upon  my  table,  with  the 
original  correspondence  between  us.  He,  I  soon  found. 


RANDOLPH.  3S3 

had  done  the  same.  We  met  in  silence. — I  never  shall 
forget  his  look.  It  was  a  pale  moonlight,  much  like  this 
which  led  us  abroad  to-night.  His  eyes  were  of  a  pre- 
ternatural brightness,  but  his  lips  were  deadly  pale.— 
His  bearing  had  been  noble — but  very  arrogant  toward 
me;  and  I  gathered  from  his  whole  aspect  now,  that  he 
was  determined  to  kill  me,  at  all  hazard.  I  determin- 
ed to  prevent  it.  We  fought.  I  disarmed  him,  once — 
and  broke  his  sworjd;  but  the  point  wounded  me  in  the 
sword  arm.  I  asked  him  if  he  was  satisfied.  He  an- 
swered sullenly,  no- — He  grappled  me  by  the  throat,  as 
he  said  this — but  I  broke  loose  from  him,  and  dashed  him 
against  the  tree.  In  the  struggle,  my  sword  was  broken, 
or  I  should  assuredly  have  slain  him.  We  stood  awhile, 
then,  panting  and  breathing.  I  was  exhausted,  by  loss 
of  blood. — The  trampling  of  horses'  hoofs,  sounded  near 
us;  and  we  were  fain  to  delay  our  combat  for  awhile.  I 
would  not  have  believed  that  such  a  mortal  deadlessness 
could  exist  in  one  so  young.  But  so  it  was. — "Follow 
me,"  said  he. — "We  shall  find  arms."  I  followed  him, 
weak  and  dizzy.  He  strode  onward — and  1  never  look- 
ed to  the  rigtjrt  nor  left,  until  we  stood  in  a  large  room, 
that  I  had  never  been  in  before.  The  moon  shone 
through  and  through  it. — He  took  a  pair  of  pistols  from 
that  very  closet. — His  breathing  was  loud,  and  the  only 
words  that  passed,  were — 
"Where  are  we,  sir?" 
"No  matter — the  house  is  uninhabited." 
He  offered  me  the  pistol.  I  refused,  again,  and  again. 
I  was  unwilling  to  kill  him — and,  perhaps,  afraid  to  die. 
I  felt  less  confidence.  He  pressed  me  sorely — he  levelled. 
I  refused  to  raise  mine.  .  He  called  me  by  every  oppro  -  „ 
brious  name — coward — scoundrel — and  liar.  I  shook, 
with  terrour  and  rage.  My  blood  retreated  from  my 
heart.  A  murderous  thought  arose — it  might  have  died 
— but  for  him.  I  could  have  strangled  it — but  the  mad- 
man, weary  of  delay,  and  impatient  for  my  blood,  sprang 
upon  me,  again;  and,  as  he  did,  he  pronounced  a  word — 
a  single  word; — it  was  only  a  name,  but  it  was  the  name 
of  one  that  I  loved— 0  God! — more  than  anything— 
E  E  2 


534  RANDOLPH. 

dead  or  alive — in  heaven  or  earth — he  pronounced 
that  name — her  name — awl  coupled  it  with  dishonour. 
What  followed,  I  hardly  know.  Our  pistols  rang  toge- 
ther— \ve  were  blinded  and  stunned  by  the  smoke  and 
noise — we  grappled,  and  fell — and  here— here,  where  I 
now  stand — I  first  came  to  my  senses.  My  knife  was  in 
a  dead  man's  heart— I  was  griping  it,  by  the  handle;  and 
my  fingers  were  cramped — he  was  cold,  cold— and  the 
moon  had  gone  down— the  smoke  had  all  gone — and  the 
whole  house  was  silent  as  death.  I  arose— I  was  stiff 
and  sore — I  had  but  a  dim  recollection  of  what  had  pass- 
ed— I  recollected  it,  however,  gradually;  but  I  felt  no 
emotion — none.  There  was  a  preternatural  sternness 
and  calmness  in  my  movement.  I  took  hold  of  his  hand 
— I  lifted  it-— it  was  clenched — and  it  adhered  to  mine, 
strangely,  for  a  moment; — but,  I  shook  it  off,  and  it  fell, 
with  a  dead,  heavy  sound,  upon  the  floor.  I  raised  the 
head-— it  fell,  with  the  same  sound.  I  felt  upon  the  floor 
—bow  long  it  had  been  there,  I  knew  not — but  the  blood 
had  become  a  thick  coagulated  matter.  I  waited  there, 
even  there,  in  the  darkness,  for  whole  hours—  sitting  by 
the  body — without  one  emotion  of  terrour.  At  last,  I 
Rethought  myself  of  my  safety.  My  plan  was  formed, 
immediately.  I  took  the  pistols,  and  the  body—  -and  I 
bore  them  to  the  tree,  through  the  cold  and  horrible 
darkness  and  silence — the  sweat  falling  from  my  face,  like 
rain;  and  my  shoes  full  of  blood — partly  my  own—  part- 
ly his,  I  laid  him  under  the  tree.  Our  broken  swords, 
[  laid  by  him.  Our  pistols,  just  as  they  were,  1  left.  I  then 
went  into  town,  and  caused  a  note  to  be.  left  with  you, 
sir — the  contents  of  which,  yon  cannot  have  forgotten, 
1  know  all  your  movements.  But  what  could  you  do?— 
It  was  evident  that  he  had  met  me,  armed  against  my 
life.  What  evidence  had  you  against  me?  None.  The 
wound,  in  his  side,  you  had  never  seen — or,  if  you  had, 
it  would  have  deceived  a  wiser  man  than  you;  for  1  ran 
the  blade  of  my  sword  into  the  same  wound,  after  I  had 
stabbed  him  with  the  knife,  that  you  might  be  deceived. 
Are  you  willing  to  destroy  me?  Do  your  worst.  Here 
am  I — a  murderer,  ready  to  accompany  you,  wherever 


• 


RANDOLPH.  535 

you  may  bid  me.  Let  justice  take  its  course.  I  am 
weary  of  life." 

O,  Frank,  what  was  there  in  the  voice  of  this  man*  the 
deep  troubled  voice,  that  so  shook  me?  I  felt  as  if  /had 
been  the  murderer.  Frank!— can  you  believe  it?  I  stood 
before  him,  as  if  I  were  the  criminal,  he  the  judge.  In 
my  heart,  I  pitied  him — wept  with  him — yea,  wept  with 
him. 

"And  now,"  said  he,  "I  am  about  to  depart.  Never 
will  I  sleep,  again,  under  this  roof.  Sleep! — O,  I  know 
not  what  sleep  is.  Let  me  sit  down.  I  have  something  to 
communicate.  You  have  been  disturbed  at  night — all  that 
have  slept  here,  make  the  same  complaint.  This  house  was 
once  in  your  family.  Will  you  accept  of  it,  again?  You 
are  welcome  to  it.  I  have  spent  a  night  in  it,  for  the  last 
time.  Give  me  your  hand.  My  pulse,  you  see,  is  regu- 
lar and  full.  Now  listen  to  me.  I  am  no  believer  in 
spirits.  I  have  taught  myself  to  laugh  at  all  tales  that 
relate  to  them,  as  the  gossip  of  the  nursery.  Yet — I  can- 
not stay  here.  Let  me  tell  you  what  I  have  seen.  I  had 
been  here  but  two  nights,  when  Helen  awoke  me,  and 
whispered  that  there  was  somebody  in  the  room.  I  arose, 
and  searched  every  corner  and  hiding  place,  with  my 
sword.  She  is  not  a  timid  woman;— but,  hardly  had  I 
shut  my  eyes,  when  I  heard  her  breathing  change.  I 
looked  up.  Omar,  I  am  not  a  man  to  be  easily  disturb- 
ed. I  do  not  depend  upon  my  senses — they  are  fallible — 
but  I  employ  my  reason.  Yet  I  saw  something,  as  plain- 
ly as  I  now  see  you,  standing  with  its  arms  folded,  near 
that  window— the  attitude,  I  then  thought,  was  that  of  a 
wounded  man.  I  continued  to  look  at  it,  for  some  time; 
but,  as  I  arose,  it  went  away.  I  returned  to  my  bed.  1 
endeavoured  to  account  for  it,  as  an  illusion.  1  shut  my 
eyes;— but  it  was  not  in  my  brain.  Nor  did  I  again  see 
it,  although  I  tried  every  position,  and  watched  all  night. 
My  attention  was  then  turned  to  Helen.  She  was  insen- 
sible, and  white.  I  questioned  her,  when  she  recovered; 
but  all  that  she  recollected,  was,  that  after  I  had  return- 
ed to  bed,  she  felt  strangely  cold  on  one  side,  and,  hap- 
pening vto  look  up,  saw,  or  thought  she  saw,  the  face  of 
a  dead  man,  close  to  mine. 


336  RANDOLPH. 

Some  time  after  that,  we  were  alarmed  again;  but,  I 
ridiculed  the  whole,  as  a  childish  notion.  "We  slept  here, 
then;  and  it  was  only  by  her  continual  persuasion,  that  I 
removed  to  the  chamber  opposite.  The  servants  com- 
plained of  strange  sounds — as  of  people,  walking  about, 
softly,  in  their  stocking  feet...  and  whispering.,  .poor  souls 
—  and  you,  I  remember^  were  cruelly  disturbed.  All  these 
things  made  their  impression  upon  me:  but,  still,  I  for- 
bore to  confess  my  terrour.  I  was  ashamed  of  it — I 

am  still  ashamed  of  it.     But,  one  night listen  to 

me,  patiently.  It  may  never  be  your  fate,  to  meet  with  a 
man  who  can  tell,  so  calmly,  what  he  has  seen;  or  one, 
who  appears  so  entirely  master  of  himself,  and  is  honest 
and  true." 

I  was  walking,  excessively  fatigued,  about  two  months 
ago,  along  a  desolate  road,  in  this  neighbourhood.  There 
was  a  thick  mist  in  the  wind.  You  have  observed  the 
strange,  foreign  air,  of  this  old  town.  The  venerable 
solidity,  fashion  and  spaciousness,  of  the  dwelling-houses 
— all  standing  apart  and  alone — surrounded  by  heavy, 
well  built  walls — with  towers,  wings,  arches,  and  abut- 
ments— are  of  Another  age —  another  country — another 
race  of  men.  What  a  profound  silence,  at  this  moment, 
over  the  whole  place!  It  is  a  perfect  solitude;  and  every 
dwelling  house,  of  itself,  is  another  solitude,  totally  un- 
like any  thing  else  to  be  found  in  America.  You  are  not 
so  sensibly  affected  with  the  silent,  old  fashioned  feudal 
grandeur  of  the  habitations  here,  as  I  am.  But,  had 
you  never  entered  one  of  them,  till  you  were  a  full  grown 
man,  you  would  feel  as  I  do.  Just  turn  your  iiead  for  a 
moment — look  through  that  narrow  window — where 
will  you  find  such  a  tree  as  that? — it  looks  as  if  it  were  * 
a  thousand  years  old.  That  clear,  deep  water,  too! — I 
remember  that  very  glitter,  on  the  night  of  which  I  speak 
— it  was  like  a  brightness  in  the  air.  Look  there,  too. 
Indeed,  sir,  you  must  feel  it — every  man  must  feel,  stand- 
ing as  we  are  now,  alone,  at  night,  in  a  vast  chamber 
like  this,  looking  out  upon  the  whole  city  of  Annapolis, 
that  here  dwelt  the  ancient  nobility  of  Maryland — haugh- 
ty and  lonely.  It  looks  dark  and  sullen,  as  the  retreat 


RANDOLPH.  337 

of  decayed  gentility — almost  baronial  gentility — should 
look.  Mr.  Omar,  I  was  never  more  affected  with  the 
solemnity  of  the  place,  than  on  that  night.  I  wandered, 
I  know  not  how  long,  nor  hardly  in  what  direction,  with 
my  eyes  upon  the  ground,  continually  asking  myself 
what  had  become  of  the  ancient  people — whose  dwelling 
places,  about  me,  were  no  longer  inhabited;  or  inhabited 
by  strangers  to  their  blood,  who  had  bought  manors  and 
castles,  literally,  for  a  few  hundreds  of  dollars.  At  last, 
I  found  myself  in  the  open  fields,  there — back  of  you — 
near  the  Severn — just  in  the  centre  of  that  beautiful 
sweep,  there,  where  all  the  waters  run  together,  and 
shut  up  the  town; — but  still,  I  held  on  my  way,  for  the 
cool,  fresh  feeling  of  the  wet  turf,  was  pleasant  to  my 
feet — now  and  then,  looking  about  me  for  glimpses 
of  the  water,  and  haif  inclined  to  go  into  it,  and  spend 
the  night  there,  in  swimming  about  the  full  brink.  I  do 
not  well  know  how  it  happened,  but,  at  last,  I  had  fairly 
lost  myself.  There  was  a  thick  mist  in  the  air — a  some- 
thing heavier  than  mist — a  fog,  that  loaded  down  the 
heart.  I  felt  it,  like  a  heavy  weight,  upon  my  blood. — 
I  grew  troubled,  without  knowing  why; — and,  after  a 
while — I  know  not  how  long  I  had  been  rambling  with 
my  head  down — happening  to  look  up,  toward  the  high- 
er ground — near  the  water — I  saw,  what  I  thought,  a 
man  following  me.  It  was  late,  and  I  was  unarmed — 
or,  rather,  i  had  no  arms  but  this  knife,  which  my  re- 
sidence in  South  America,  gave  me  the  custom  of  wear- 
ing. But  he  kept  opposite  to  me;  and  walked,  I  thought, 
like  one  in  distress.  I  approached  him.  He  vanished, 
I  then  thought  that  it  was  my  own  shadow,  and  produced 
by  some  optical  delusion;  for  such  things  have  been.  I  re- 
turned to  the  very  spot — I  saw  it  again — I  walked,  but 
the  shadow  stopped — I  stood  still,  yet  that  walked.  It 
was  not  my  shadow; — becaijse  there  was  no  light — no 
moon — no  star — it  was  only  a  sickly  twilight.  My 
heart  did  feel  cold  at  last,  and  my  blood  curdled.  I  ap- 
proached; it  stood  still,  like  one,  sternly  regarding  me. 
Nay,  I  could  have  sworn  that  I  struck  my  knife  into  it, 
once  more — for  I  was  desperate,  with  a  strange  un- 


338  RANDOLPH. 

natural  ferocity — when  lo!  I  saw  it  walking  before  me 
again,  at  a  great  distance,  with  long  strides,  and  a  noise, 
less  step.  Even  then,  shall  I  confess  it  to  you? — I 
thought  of  William — the  manner  appeared  like  his — and 
my  blood  ran  cold.  Such  was  the  effect,  that  I  became 
sick. 

I  have  now  done.  I  am  satisfied.  I  do  not  say  that/ie 
hath  appeared  to  me.  No — I  choose  to  imagine  that,  what 
I  have  seen,  is  a  deception.  But,  I  will  not  expose  my- 
self any  longer,  to  such  deception.  It  would  drive  me 
mad.  Farewell. — Do  with  me,  what  you  will.  The 
house  is  yours — furniture  and  all.  I  shall  leave  it,  this 
hour,  never  to  enter  it  again.  I  shall  only  send  for  my 
books,  and  a  few  pictures,  that  are  dear  to  me ." 

There,  Frank — what  am  I  to  do  with  him? — I  will  be 
governed  by  you.  Write  to  me,  immediately.  As  for  the 
house,  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  It  is  of  no 
great  value,  to  be  sure;  and  the  furniture  is  mere  rubbish; 
but,  although  it  is  quite  too  serious  a  matter  to  accept  in 
this  way — I  am  unaccountably  aifected.  A  strange  hu- 
mour is  upon  me.  What  think  you?  I  have  tried  to 
forget  it  all;  but  something  'was  there,  I  am  sure  of  it — 
it  was  not  the  mere  delirium  of  a  fever!  Tell  me — do 
you  believe  it  possible  for  the  departed  to  re-appear? — 
How  little  this  Molton  is  known?  He  makes  no  stir, 
here,  now;  and  the  affair  of  poor  William's  death  seems 
to  be  forgotten. — What  shall  we  do? 

JOHN. 


MAD.  VERNON   TO   JULIET. 

"God  tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb,"  my  child. 
Come  to  my  arms.  I  have  succeeded,  at  last,  blessed  be 
heaven; — I  have  succeeded!  and  all  that  I  have,  dear,  is 
thine.  The  decision  was  finally  made,  about  a  month 
since — but  1  feared  to  declare  it,  we  have  had  so  many 
disappointments,  until  the  money  was  actually  in  my 


RANDOLPH.  339 

hands.  It  is  so  now,  at  this  moment;  and  the  power  that 
I  have  to  make  my  sweet,  dear  Juliet,  happy  and  inde- 
pendent, is  a  compensation  for  all.  Use  no  ceremony — 
no  delay — the  gentleman  that  bears  this,  will  take  you 
immediately  under  his  protection;  and  never  leave  your 
side,  till  my  old  arms  are  about  you.  And  then — 0  Ju- 
liet!— my  child! — my  child! — how  happy  we  shall  be! — 
Your  tenderness,  and  patience,  and  piety,  are  now  to  be 
rewarded.  No — it  is  no  longer  necessary  to  expose  thy 
young  heart,  to  aught  that  may  covet  it.  Together,  we 
will  live — together  die,  now,  dear,  unless  some  great 
heart  shall  learn  thy  value — and  thine  shall  beat  for  it. 
Come  to  me.  I  shall  not  sleep,  till  we  meet. 

CLAIRE    VERNON. 


ANSWER   FROM   JULIET. 

Oh,  my  mother — it  is  too  late — too  late — I  am  mar 
ried. 

JULIET   R.  GRENVILLE. 


JSW2)  OF  VOL.  /. 


. 


O.IK 


" 


6Nr     a 

i 


/ 


i  < 


I  Cf 


m 


